"  I  told  ye  he'd  stand  'ithout  hitchin'." 


DAVID  HARUM 


A  STORY  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE 

BY 
EDWARD  NOYES  WESTCOTT 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 
Publishers     ::     ::     New  York 


COPYRIGHT,  1898, 
BY  D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  in  this  book,  including  the  rights 
of  dramatization,  recitation,  translation,  and 
the  publication  of  extracts,  are  strictly  reserved. 


MJb 


INTRODUCTION. 


The's  as  much  human  nature  in  some  folks  as  th*  is 
in  others,  if  not  more. — DAVID  HARUM. 

ONE  of  the  most  conspicuous  characteristics 
of  our  contemporary  native  fiction  is  an  increas 
ing  tendency  to  subordinate  plot  or  story  to  the 
bold  and  realistic  portrayal  of  some  of  the  types 
of  American  life  and  manners.  And  the  reason 
for  this  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  extraordinary 
mixing  of  races  which  has  been  going  on  here 
for  more  than  a  century  has  produced  an  enor 
mously  diversified  human  result;  and  the  prod 
ucts  of  this  "  hybridization  "  have  been  still  fur 
ther  differentiated  by  an  environment  that  ranges 
from  the  Everglades  of  Florida  to  the  glaciers  of 
Alaska.  The  existence  of  these  conditions,  and 
the  great  literary  opportunities  which  they  con 
tain,  American  writers  long  ago  perceived;  and, 
with  a  generally  true  appreciation  of  artistic  val 
ues,  they  have  created  from  them  a  gallery  of 
brilliant  genre  pictures  which  to-day  stand  for  the 
highest  we  have  yet  attained  in  the  art  of  fiction. 


226407 


VJ  DAVID   HAUUM. 

Thus  it  is  that  we  have  (to  mention  but  a 
few)  studies  of  Louisiana  and  her  people  by  Mr. 
Cable ;  of  Virginia  and  Georgia  by  Thomas  Nel 
son  Page  and  Joel  Chandler  Harris;  of  New 
England  by  Miss  Jewett  and  Miss  Wilkins;  of 
the  Middle  West  by  Miss  French  (Octave  Tha- 
net);  of  the  great  Northwest  by  Hamlin  Gar 
land;  of  Canada  and  the  land  of  the  habitans  by 
Gilbert  Parker;  and  finally,  though  really  first  in 
point  of  time,  the  Forty-nine  ;s  and  their  succes 
sors  by  Bret  Harte.  This  list  might  be  indefi 
nitely  extended,  for  it  is  growing  daily,  but  it  is 
long  enough  as  it  stands  to  show  that  every  sec 
tion  of  our  country  has,  or  soon  will  have,  its 
own  painter  and  historian,  whose  works  will  live 
and  become  a  permanent  part  of  our  literature  in 
just  the  degree  that  they  are  artistically  true. 
Some  of  these  writers  have  already  produced 
many  books,  while  others  have  gained  general 
recognition  and  even  fame  by  the  vividness  and 
power  of  a  single  study,  like  Mr.  Howe  with  The 
Story  of  a  Country  Town.  But  each  one,  it  will 
be  noticed,  has  chosen  for  his  field  of  work  that 
part  of  our  country  wherein  he  passed  the  early 
and  formative  years  of  his  life;  a  natural  selec 
tion  that  is,  perhaps,  an  unconscious  affirmation 
of  David  Harum's  aphorism :  "  Ev'ry  hoss  en 
do  a  thing  better  'n'  spryer  if  he's  ben  broke  to 
it  as  a  colt." 

In  the  case  of  the  present  volume  the  condi* 


INTRODUCTION  Vli 

tions  are  identical  with  those  just  mentioned. 
Most  of  the  scenes  are  laid  in  central  New  York, 
where  the  author,  Edward  Noyes  Westcott,  was 
born,  September  24,  1847,  and  where  he  died  of 
consumption,  March  31,  1898.  Nearly  all  his 
life  was  passed  in  his  native  city  of  Syracuse,  and 
although  banking  and  not  authorship  was  the 
occupation  of  his  active  years,  yet  his  sensitive 
and  impressionable  temperament  had  become  so 
saturated  with  the  local  atmosphere,  and  his  re 
tentive  memory  so  charged  with  facts,  that  when 
at  length  he  took  up  the  pen  he  was  able  to  create 
in  David  Harum  a  character  so  original,  so  true, 
and  so  strong,  yet  withal  so  delightfully  quaint 
and  humorous,  that  we  are  at  once  compelled  to 
admit  that  here  is  a  new  and  permanent  addition 
to  the  long  list  of  American  literary  portraits. 

The  book  is  a  novel,  and  throughout  it  runs 
a  love  story  which  is  characterized  by  sympa 
thetic  treatment  and  a  constantly  increasing  in 
terest;  but  the  title  role  is  taken  by  the  old  coun 
try  banker,  David  Harum:  dry,  quaint,  some 
what  illiterate,  no  doubt,  but  possessing  an  amaz 
ing  amount  of  knowledge  not  found  in  printed 
books,  and  holding  fast  to  the  cheerful  belief 
that  there  is  nothing  wholly  bad  or  useless  in 
this  world.  Or,  in  his  own  words :  "  A  reason 
able  amount  of  fleas  is  good  for  a  dog — they, 
keep  him  f'm  broodin'  on  bein'  a  dog."  This 
horse-trading  country  banker  and  reputed  Shy- 


Viii  DAVID  HARUM, 

lock,  but  real  philanthropist,  is  an  accurate  por 
trayal  of  a  type  that  exists  in  the  rural  districts  of 
central  New  York  to-day.  Variations  of  him  may 
be  seen  daily,  driving  about  in  their  road  wagons 
or  seated  in  their  "  bank  parlors,"  shrewd,  sharp- 
tongued,  honest  as  the  sunlight  from  most  points 
of  view,  but  in  a  horse  trade  much  inclined  to 
follow  the  rule  laid  down  by  Mr.  Harum  himself 
for  such  transactions:  "  Do  unto  the  other  feller 
the  way  he'd  like  to  do  unto  you — an'  do  it  fust." 
The  genial  humor  and  sunny  atmosphere 
which  pervade  these  pages  are  in  dramatic  con 
trast  with  the  circumstances  under  which  they 
were  written.  The  book  was  finished  while  the 
author  lay  upon  his  deathbed,  but,  happily  for  the 
reader,  no  trace  of  his  sufferings  appears  here. 
It  was  not  granted  that  he  should  live  to  see  his 
work  in  its  present  completed  form,  a  consum 
mation  he  most  earnestly  desired ;  but  it  seems 
not  unreasonable  to  hope  that  the  result  of  his 
labors  will  be  appreciated,  and  that  David 
Harum  will  endure. 

FORBES  HEERMANS. 
SYRACUSE,  N.  Y.,  August  20, 1898. 


DAVID  HARUM. 


CHAPTER    I. 

DAVID  poured  half  of  his  second  cup  of  tea 
into  his  saucer  to  lower  its  temperature  to  the 
drinking  point,  and  helped  himself  to  a  second 
cut  of  ham  and  a  third  egg.  Whatever  was  on 
his  mind  to  have  kept  him  unusually  silent  during 
the  evening  meal,  and  to  cause  certain  wrinkles 
in  his  forehead  suggestive  of  perplexity  or  mis 
giving,  had  not  impaired  his  appetite.  David 
was  what  he  called  "  a  good  feeder ." 

Mrs.  Bixbee,  known  to  most  of  those  who  en 
joyed  the  privilege  of  her  acquaintance  as  "  Aunt 
Polly,"  though  nieces  and  nephews  of  her  blood 
there  were  none  in  Homeville,  Freeland  County, 
looked  curiously  at  her  brother,  as,  in  fact,  she 
had  done  at  intervals  during  the  repast;  and  con 
cluding  at  last  that  further  forbearance  was  un 
called  for,  relieved  the  pressure  of  her  curiosity 
thus: 

"  Guess  ye  got  somethin'  on  your  mind,  hain't 
ye?  You  hain't  hardly  said  aye,  yes,  ner  no  sence 
you  set  down.  Anythin'  gone  'skew?" 

David  lifted  his  saucer,  gave  the  contents  a 
precautionary  blow,  and  emptied  it  with  sundry 
windy  suspirations. 


2  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  nothin'  hain't  gone  exac'ly 
wrong,  's  ye  might  say — not  yet;  but  I  done  that 
thing  I  was  tellin'  ye  of  to-day." 

"  Done  what  thing?  "  she  asked  perplexedly. 

"  I  telegraphed  to  New  York,"  he  replied, 
"  fer  that  young  feller  to  come  on — the  young 
man  Gen'ral  Wolsey  wrote  me  about.  I  got  a 
letter  from  him  to-day,  an'  I  made  up  my  mind 
'  the  sooner  the  quicker,'  an'  I  telegraphed  him  to 
come  's  soon  's  he  could." 

"  I  forgit  what  you  said  his  name  was,"  said 
Aunt  Polly. 

"There's  his  letter,"  said  David,  handing  it 
across  the  table.  "  Read  it  out  'loud." 

"  You  read  it,"  she  said,  passing  it  back  after 
a  search  in  her  pocket;  "  I  must  'a'  left  my  specs 
in  the  settin'-room." 

The  letter  was  as  follows: 

"  DEAR  SIR:  I  take  the  liberty  of  addressing 
you  at  the  instance  of  General  Wolsey,  who  spoke 
to  me  of  the  matter  of  your  communication  to 
him,  and  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  he  would 
write  you  in  my  behalf.  My  acquaintance  with 
him  has  been  in  the  nature  of  a  social  rather 
than  a  business  one,  and  I  fancy  that  he  can  only 
recommend  me  on  general  grounds.  I  will  say, 
therefore,  that  I  have  had  some  experience  with 
accounts,  but  not  much  practice  in  them  for  near 
ly  three  years.  Nevertheless,  unless  the  work  you 
wish  done  is  of  an  intricate  nature,  I  think  I 
shall  be  able  to  accomplish  it  with  such  posting 
at  the  outset  as  most  strangers  would  require. 
General  Wolsey  told  me  that  you  wanted  some 
one  as  soon  as  possible.  I  have  nothing  to  pre 
vent  me  from  starting  at  once  if  you  desire  to 


DAVID   HARUM.  3 

have  me.  A  telegram  addressed  to  me  at  the 
office  of  the  Trust  Company  will  reach  me 
promptly.  Yours  very  truly, 

"  JOHN  K.  LENOX." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  looking"  over  his  glasses 
at  his  sister,  "  what  do  you  think  on't?  " 

"The'  ain't  much  brag  in't,"  she  replied 
thoughtfully. 

"  No,"  said  David,  putting  his  eye-glasses 
back  in  their  case,  "  th'  ain't  no  brag  ner  no  prom 
ises;  he  don't  even  say  he'll  do  his  best,  like  most 
fellers  would.  He  seems  to  have  took  it  fer 
granted  that  I'll  take  it  fer  granted,  an'  that's  what 
I  like  about  it.  Wa'al,"  he  added,  "  the  thing's 
done,  an'  I'll  be  lookin'  fer  him  to-morrow  morn- 
in'  or  evenin'  at  latest." 

Mrs.  Bixbee  sat  for  a  moment  with  her  large, 
light  blue,  and  rather  prominent  eyes  fixed  on  her 
brother's  face,  and  then  she  said,  with  a  slight 
undertone  of  anxiety,  "  Was  you  cal'latin'  to  have 
that  young  man  from  New  York  come  here? " 

"  I  hadn't  no  such  idee,"  he  replied,  with  a 
slight  smile,  aware  of  what  was  passing  in  her 
mind.  "  What  put  that  in  your  head?  " 

"  Wa'al,"  she  answered,  "  you  know  the*  ain't 
scarcely  anybody  in  the  village  that  takts  board 
ers  in  the  winter,  an'  I  was  wonderin'  what  he 
would  do." 

"  I  s'pose  he'll  go  to  the  Eagle,"  said  David. 
"  I  dunno  where  else,  'nless  it's  to  the  Lake 
House." 

"  The  Eagil!  "  she  exclaimed  contemptuously. 
"  Land  sakes !  Comin'  here  from  New  York !  He 
won't  stan'  it  there  a  week." 

"  Wa'al,"  replied  David,  "  mebbe  he  will  an' 


4  DAVID   HARUM. 

mebbe  he  won't,  but  I  don't  see  what  else  the* 
is  for  it,  an'  I  guess  'twon't  kill  him  fer  a  spell. 

The  fact  is "  he  was  proceeding  when  Mrs. 

Bixbee  interrupted  him. 

"  I  guess  we'd  better  adjourn  f  the  settin'- 
room  an'  let  Sairy  clear  off  the  tea-things,"  she 
said,  rising  and  going  into  the  kitchen. 

"What  was  you  sayin'?"  she  asked,  as  she 
presently  found  her  brother  in  the  apartment 
designated,  and  seated  herself  with  her  mending- 
basket  in  her  lap. 

"  The  fact  is,  I  was  sayin',"  he  resumed,  sit 
ting  with  hand  and  forearm  resting  on  a  round 
table,  in  the  centre  of  which  was  a  large  kerosene 
lamp,  "  that  my  notion  was,  fust  off,  to  have  him 
come  here,  but  when  I  come  to  think  on't  I 
changed  my  mind.  In  the  fust  place,  except  that 
he's  well  recommended,  I  don't  know  nothin' 
about  him;  an'  in  the  second,  you'n  I  are  pretty 
well  set  in  our  ways,  an'  git  along  all  right  just 
as  we  be.  I  may  want  the  young  feller  to  stay, 
an'  then  agin  I  may  not — we'll  see.  It's  a  good 
sight  easier  to  git  a  fishhook  in  'n  'tis  to  git  it 
out.  I  expect  he'll  find  it  putty  tough  at  first, 
but  if  he's  a  feller  that  c'n  be  drove  out  of  bus'nis 
by  a  spell  of  the  Eagle  Tavern,  he  ain't  the  feller 
I'm  lookin'  fer — though  I  will  allow,"  he  added 
with  a  grimace,  "  that  it'll  be  a  putty  hard  test. 
But  if  I  want  to  say  to  him,  after  tryin'  him  a 
spell,  that  I  guess  me  an'  him  don't  seem  likely  to 
hitch,  we'll  both  take  it  easier  if  we  ain't  livin' 
in  the  same  house.  I  guess  I'll  take  a  look  at 
the  Trybune,"  said  David,  unfolding  that  paper. 

Mrs.  Bixbee  went  on  with  her  needlework, 
with  an  occasional  side  glance  at  her  brother, 
who  was  immersed  in  the  gospel  of  his  politics. 


DAVID   HARUM.  5 

Twice  or  thrice  she  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  ad 
dress  him,  but  apparently  some  restraining 
thought  interposed.  Finally,  the  impulse  to  utter 
her  mind  culminated.  "  Dave,"  she  said,  "  d'  you 
know  what  Deakin  Perkins  is  sayin'  about  ye?" 

David  opened  his  paper  so  as  to  hide  his  face, 
and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  twitched  as  he  asked 
in  return,  "  Wa'al,  what's  the  deakin  sayin'  now?  " 

"  He's  sayin',"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  mixed 
of  indignation  and  apprehension,  "  thet  you  sold 
him  a  balky  horse,  an'  he's  goin'  to  hev  the  law 
on  ye." 

David's  shoulders  shook  behind  the  shelter 
ing  page,  and  his  mouth  expanded  in  a  grin. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  replied  after  a  moment,  lowering 
the  paper  and  looking  gravely  at  his  companion 
over  his  glasses,  "  next  to  the  deakin's  religious 
experience,  them  of  lawin'  an'  horse-tradin'  air 
his  strongest  p'ints,  an'  he  works  the  hull  on  'em 
to  once  sometimes." 

The  evasiveness  of  this  generality  was  not  lost 
on  Mrs.  Bixbee,  and  she  pressed  the  point  with, 
"Did  ye?  an'  will  He?" 

"  Yes,  an'  no,  an'  mebbe,  an'  mebbe  not,"  was 
the  categorical  reply. 

"  Wa'al,"  she  answered  with  a  snap,  "  mebbe 
you  call  that  an  answer.  I  s'pose  if  you  don't 
want  to  let  on  you  won't,  but  I  do  believe  you've 
ben  playin'  some  trick  on  the  deakin,  an'  won't 
own  up.  I  do  wish,"  she  added,  "  that  if  you  hed 
to  git  rid  of  a  balky  horse  onto  somebody  you'd 
hev  picked  out  somebody  else." 

"  When  you  got  a  balker  to  dispose  of,"  said 
David  gravely,  "  you  can't  alwus  pick  an'  choose. 
Fust  come,  fust  served."  Then  he  went  on  more 
seriously:  "  Now  I'll  tell  ye.  Quite  a  while  ago — 


6  DAVID   HARUM. 

in  fact,  not  long  after  I  come  to  enjoy  the  priv*- 
lidge  of  the  dcakin's  acquaintance — we  hed  a  deal. 
1  \\;i'n't  jest  on  my  guard,  knowin'  him  to  be  a 
deakin  an'  all  that,  an'  he  lied  to  me  so  splendid 
that  I  was  took  in,  clean  over  my  head.  He  done 
me  so  brown  I  was  burnt  in  places,  an'  you  c'd 
smell  smoke  'round  me  fer  some  time." 

"Was  it  a  horse?"  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee  gra 
tuitously. 

"  Waal,"  David  replied,  "  mebbe  it  had  ben 
some  time,  but  at  that  partic'lar  time  the  only 
thing  to  determine  that  fact  was  that  it  wa'n't 
nothin'  else." 

"Wa'al,  I  declare!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bixbee, 
wondering  not  more  at  the  deacon's  turpitude 
than  at  the  lapse  in  David's  acuteness,  of  which 
she  had  an  immense  opinion,  but  commenting 
only  on  the  former.  '*  I'm  'mazed  at  the  deakin." 

4<  Yes'm,"  said  David  with  a  grin,  "  I'm  quite 
a  liar  myself  when  it  comes  right  down  to  the 
boss  btis'nis,  but  the  deakin  c'n  give  me  both 
bowers  ev'ry  hand.  He  done  it  so  slick  that  I 
had  to  laugh  when  I  come  to  think  it  over — an' 
I  had  witnesses  to  the  hull  confab,  ton,  that  he 
didn't  know  of,  an'  I  c'd  've  showed  him  up  in 
great  shape  if  I'd  had  a  mind  to." 

"Why  didn't  ye?"  said  Aunt  Polly,  whose 
feelings  a'bout  the  deacon  were  undergoing  a  re 
vulsion. 

"  Wa'al,  to  tell  ye  the  truth,  I  was  so  com 
pletely  skunked  that  I  hadn't  a  word  to  say.  I 
got  rid  o'  the  thing  fer  what  it  was  wuth  fer 
hide  an'  taller,  an'  stid  of  squealin'  'round  the 
way  you  say  he's  doin',  like  a  stuck  pig,  I  kep' 
my  tongue  between  my  teeth  an'  laid  to  git  even 


DAVID   HARUM.  7 

"  You  ort  to  Ve  bed  the  law  on  him,"  declared 
Mrs.  Bixbee,  now  fully  converted.  "  The  old 
scamp! " 

"  Wa'al,"  was  the  reply,  "I  gen'ally  prefer  to 
settle  out  of  court,  an'  in  this  particular  case,  while 
I  might  'a'  ben  willin'  t'  admit  that  I  hed  ben  did 
up,  I  didn't  feel  much  like  swearin'  to  it.  I 
reckoned  the  time  'd  come  when  mebbe  I'd  git 
the  laugh  on  the  deakin,  an'  it  did,  an'  we're  putty 
well  settled  now  in  full." 

"  You  mean  this  last  pufformance? "  asked 
Mrs.  Bixbee.  "  I  wish  you'd  quit  beatin'  about 
the  bush,  an'  tell  me  the  hull  story." 

"  Wa'al,  it's  like  this,  then,  if  you  will  hev  it. 
I  was  over  to  Whiteboro  a  while  ago  on  a  little 
matter  of  worldly  bus'nis,  an'  I  seen  a  couple  of 
fellers  halter-exercisin'  a  hoss  in  the  tavern  yard. 
I  stood  'round  a  spell  watchin'  'em,  an'  when  he 
come  to  a  standstill  I  went  an'  looked  him  over, 
an'  I  liked  his  looks  fust  rate. 

"'  Per  sale?'  I  says. 

" '  Wa'al,'  says  the  chap  that  was  leadin*  him, 
*  I  never  see  the  hoss  that  wa'n't  if  the  price  was 
right.' 

"'Your'n?'  I  says. 

" '  Mine  an'  his'n/  he  says,  noddin'  his  head 
at  the  other  feller. 

"  '  What  ye  askin'  fer  him? '  I  says. 

"  '  One-fifty,'  he  says. 

"  1  looked  him  all  over  agin  putty  careful,  an' 
once  or  twice  I  kind  o'  shook  my  head  's  if  I 
didn't  quite  like  what  I  seen,  an'  when  I  got 
through  I  sort  o'  half  turned  away  without  sayin' 
anythin',  's  if  I'd  seen  enough. 

'  The'  ain't  a  scratch  ner  a  pimple  on  him/ 
says'  the  feller,  kind  o'  resentin'  my  looks.    '  He's 


g  DAVID    HARUM. 

sound  an'  kind,  an'  '11  stand  without  hitchin',  an9 
a  lady  c'n  drive  him  's  well 's  a  man.' 

"  '  I  ain't  got  anythin'  agin  him,'  I  says,  '  an* 
prob'ly  that's  all  true,  ev'ry  word  on't;  but  one- 
fifty's  a  consid'able  price  fer  a  hoss  these  days. 
I  hain't  no  pressin'  use  fer  another  hoss,  an',  in 
fact,'  I  says,  '  I've  got  one  or  two  fer  sale  my 
self.' 

"  '  He's  wuth  two  hunderd  jest  as  he  stands/ 
the  feller  says.  '  He  hain't  had  no  trainin',  an'  he 
c'n  draw  two  men  in  a  road-wagin  better'n  fifty/ 

"  Wa'al,  the  more  I  looked  at  him  the  better 
I  liked  him,  but  I  only  says,  '  Jes'  so,  jes'  so,  he 
may  be  wuth  the  money,  but  jest  as  I'm  fixed  now 
he  ain't  wuth  it  to  me,  an'  I  hain't  got  that  much 
money  with  me  if  he  was/  I  says.  The  other  feller 
hadn't  said  nothin'  up  to  that  time,  an'  he  broke 
in  now.  '  I  s'pose  you'd  take  him  fer  a  gift, 
wouldn't  ye? '  he  says,  kind  o'  sneerin'. 

"  '  Wa'al,  yes/  I  says,  '  I  dunno  but  I  would 
if  you'd  throw  in  a  pound  of  tea  an'  a  halter/ 

"  He  kind  o'  laughed  an'  says,  '  Wa'al,  this 
ain't  no  gift  enterprise,  an'  I  guess  we  ain't  goin' 
to  trade,  but  I'd  like  to  know/  he  says,  '  jest  as  a 
matter  of  curios'ty,  what  you'd  say  he  was  wuth 
to  ye?' 

"  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  I  come  over  this  mornin'  to 
see  a  feller  that  owed  me  a  trifle  o'  money.  Ex- 
ceptin'  of  some  loose  change,  what  he  paid  me  's 
all  I  got  with  me/  I  says,  takin'  out  my  wallet. 
*  That  wad's  got  a  hunderd  an'  twenty-five  into 
it,  an'  if  you'd  sooner  have  your  hoss  an'  halter 
than  the  wad/  I  says,  '  why,  I'll  bid  ye  good-day/ 

"  '  You're  offerin'  one-twenty-five  fer  the  hoss 
an'  halter? '  he  says. 

"  '  That's  what  I'm  doin'/  I  says. 


DAVID   HARUM.  g 

" '  You've  made  a  trade/  he  says,  puttin'  out 
his  hand  fer  the  money  an'  handin'  the  halter  over 
to  me." 

"  An'  didn't  ye  suspicion  nuthin'  when  he  took 
ye  up  like  that?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"  I  did  smell  woolen  some,"  said  David,  "  but 
I  had  the  hoss  an'  they  had  the  money,  an',  as  fur 
's  I  c'd  see,  the  critter  was  all  right.  Howsomever, 
I  says  to  'em :  '  This  here's  all  right,  fur  's  it's 
gone,  but  you've  talked  putty  strong  'bout  this 
hoss.  I  don't  know  who  you  fellers  be,  but  I  c'n 
find  out/  I  says.  Then  the  fust  feller  that  done 
the  talkin'  'bout  the  hoss  put  in  an*  says,  'The* 
hain't  ben  one  word  said  to  you  about  this  hoss 
that  wa'n't  gospel  truth,  not  one  word/  An' 
when  I  come  to  think  on't  afterward/'  said  David 
with  a  half  laugh,  "  it  mebbe  wa'n't  gospel  truth, 
but  it  was  good  enough  jury  truth.  I  guess  this 
ain't  over  'n'  above  int'restin'  to  ye,  is  it  ?  "  he 
asked  after  a  pause,  looking  doubtfully  at  his 
sister. 

"  Yes,  'tis,"  she  asserted.  "  I'm  lookin'  for- 
rered  to  where  the  deakin  comes  in,  but  you  jes' 
tell  it  your  own  way." 

"  I'll  git  there  all  in  good  time,"  said  David, 
"  but  some  of  the  point  of  the  story'll  be  lost  if  I 
don't  tell  ye  what  come  fust." 

"  I  allow  to  stan'  it  's  long  's  you  can,"  she 
said  encouragingly,  "  seein'  what  work  I  had  get- 
tin'  ye  started.  Did  ye  find  out  anythin'  'bout 
them  fellers?" 

"  I  ast  the  barn  man  if  he  knowed  who  they 
was,  an'  he  said  he  never  seen  'em  till  the  yestiddy 
before,  an'  didn't  know  'em  f'm  Adam.  They 
come  along  with  a  couple  of  hosses,  one  drivin' 
an'  t'other  leadin' — the  one  I  bought.  I  ast  him  if 


IO  DAVID   HARUM. 

they  knowed  who  I  was,  an'  he  said  one  on  'em 
ast  him,  an'  he  told  him.  The  feller  said  to  him, 
seein'  me  drive  up :  '  That's  a  putty  likely-lookin' 
hoss.  Who's  drivin'  him?'  An'  he  says  to  the 
feller :  '  That's  Dave  Harum,  f  m  over  to  Home- 
ville.  He's  a  great  feller  fer  hosses,'  he  says." 

"  Dave,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "  them  chaps  jest 
laid  fer  ye,  didn't  they?  " 

"  I  reckon  they  did,"  he  admitted;  "an'  they 
was  as  slick  a  pair  as  was  ever  drawed  to,"  which 
expression  was  lost  upon  his  sister.  David 
rubbed  the  fringe  of  yellowish-gray  hair  which 
encircled  his  bald  pate  for  a  moment. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  resumed,  "  after  the  talk  with  the 
barn  man,  I  smelt  woolen  stronger'n  ever,  but  I 
didn't  say  nothin',  an'  had  the  mare  hitched  an* 
started  back.  Old  Jinny  drives  with  one  hand, 
«n'  I  c'd  watch  the  new  one  all  right,  an'  as  we 
come  along  I  begun  to  think  I  wa'n't  stuck  after 
•11.  I  never  see  a  hoss  travel  evener  an'  nicer, 
•n'  when  we  come  to  a  good  level  place  I  sent  the 
oid  mare  along  the  best  she  knew,  an'  the  new 
one  never  broke  his  gait,  an'  kep'  right  up  'ithout 
'par'ntly  half  tryin';  an'  Jinny  don't  take  most 
folks'  dust  neither.  I  swan!  'fore  I  got  home  I 
reckoned  I'd  jest  as  good  as  made  seventy-five 
anyway." 


CHAPTER  II. 

"THEN  the'  wa'n't  nothrn'  the  matter  with 
him,  after  all,"  commented  Mrs.  Bixbee  in  rather 
a  disappointed  tone. 

"  The  meanest  thing  top  of  the  earth  was  the 
matter  with  him,"  declared  David,  "  but  I  didn't 
find  it  out  till  the  next  afternoon,  an'  then  I  found 
it  out  good.  I  hitched  him  to  the  open  buggy 
an'  went  'round  by  the  East  road,  'cause  that  ain't 
so  much  travelled.  He  went  along"  all  right  till 
we  got  a  mile  or  so  out  of  the  village,  an'  then 
I  slowed  him  down  to  a  walk.  Wa'al,  sir,  scat 

my !    He  hadn't  walked  more'n  a  rod  'fore 

he  come  to  a  dead  stan'still.  I  clucked  an'  git- 
app'd,  an'  finely  took  the  gad  to  him  a  little;  but 
he  only  jes'  kind  o'  humped  up  a  little,  an'  stood 
like  he'd  took  root." 

"  Wa'al,  now!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"  Yes'm,"  said  David;  "  I  was  stuck  in  ev'ry 
sense  of  the  word." 

"What  d'ye  do?" 

"  Wa'al,  I  tried  all  the  tricks  I  knowed — an* 
I  could  lead  him — but  when  I  was  in  the  buggy 
he  wouldn't  stir  till  he  got  good  an'  ready;  'n' 
then  he'd  start  of  his  own  accord  an'  go  on  a  spell, 
an' " 

"  Did  he  keep  it  up? "  Mrs.  Bixbee  inter 
rupted. 

ii 


,2  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  Wa'al,  I  s'd  say  he  did.  I  finely  got  homtf 
with  the  critter,  but  I  thought  one  time  I'd  either 
hev  to  lead  him  or  spend  the  night  on  the  East 
road.  He  balked  five  sep'rate  times,  varyin'  in 
length,  an'  it  was  dark  when  we  struck  the  barn." 

"  I  should  hev  thought  you'd  a  wanted  to  kill 
him,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee;  "  an'  the  fellers  that  sold 
him  to  ye,  too." 

"  The'  was  times,"  David  replied,  with  a  nod 
of  his  head,  "  when  if  he'd  a  fell  down  dead  I 
wouldn't  hev  figgered  on  puttin'  a  band  on  my 
hat,  but  it  don't  never  pay  to  git  mad  with  a  hoss ; 
an'  as  fur  's  the  feller  I  bought  him  of,  when  I 
remembered  how  he  told  me  he'd  stand  without 
hitchin',  I  swan!  I  had  to  laugh.  I  did,  fer  a 
fact.  '  Stand  without  hitchin'! '  He,  he,  he!  " 

"  I  guess  you  wouldn't  think  it  was  so  awful 
funny  if  you  hadn't  gone  an'  stuck  that  horse  onto 
Deakin  Perkins — an'  I  don't  see  how  you  done 
it." 

"  Mebbe  that  is  part  of  the  joke,"  David  al 
lowed,  "  an'  I'll  tell  ye  th'  rest  on't.  Th'  next  day 
I  hitched  the  new  one  to  th'  dem'crat  wagin  an' 
put  in  a  lot  of  straps  an'  rope,  an'  started  off  fer 
the  East  road  agin.  He  went  fust  rate  till  we 
come  to  about  the  place  where  we  had  the  fust 
trouble,  an',  sure  enough,  he  balked  agin.  I 
leaned  over  an'  hit  him  a  smart  cut  on  the  off 
shoulder,  but  he  only  humped  a  little,  an'  never 
lifted  a  foot.  I  hit  him  another  lick,  with  the  self 
same  result.  Then  I  got  down  an'  I  strapped  that 
animal  so't  he  couldn't  move  nothin'  but  his  head 
an'  tail,  an'  got  back  into  the  buggy.  Wa'al,  bom- 
by,  it  may  'a'  ben  ten  minutes,  or  it  may  'a'  ben 
more  or  less — it's  slow  work  settin'  still  behind 
a  balkin'  hoss — he  was  ready  to  go  on  his  own 


DAVID   HARUM.  13 

account,  but  he  couldn't  budge.  He  kind  o' 
looked  around,  much  as  to  say,  '  What  on  earth's 
the  matter?'  an'  then  he  tried  another  move,  an' 
then  another,  but  no  go.  Then  I  got  down  an' 
took  the  hopples  off  an'  then  climbed  back  into 
the  buggy,  an'  says  '  Cluck,  to  him,  an'  off  he 
stepped  as  chipper  as  could  be,  an'  we  went  jog- 
gin'  along  all  right  mebbe  two  mile,  an'  when  I 
slowed  up,  up  he  come  agin.  I  gin  him  another 
clip  in  the  same  place  on  the  shoulder,  an'  I  got 
down  an'  tied  him  up  agin,  an'  the  same  thing 
happened  as  before,  on'y  it  didn't  take  him  quite 
so  long  to  make  up  his  mind  about  startin',  an' 
we  went  some  further  without  a  hitch.  But  I 
had  to  go  through  the  pufformance  the  third  time 
before  he  got  it  into  his  head  that  if  he  didn't  go 
when  /  wanted  he  couldn't  go  when  he  wanted, 
an'  that  didn't  suit  him ;  an'  when  he  felt  the  whip 
on  his  shoulder  it  meant  bus'nis." 

"Was  that  the  end  of  his  balkin'?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"  I  had  to  give  him  one  more  go-round,"  said 
David,  "  an'  after  that  I  didn't  have  no  more  trou 
ble  with  him.  He  showed  symptoms  at  times, 
but  a  touch  of  the  whip  on  the  shoulder  alwus 
fetched  him.  I  alwus  carried  them  straps,  though, 
till  the  last  two  three  times." 

"  Wa'al,  what's  the  deakin  kickin'  about, 
then?"  asked  Aunt  Polly.  "You're  jes'  sayin' 
you  broke  him  of  balkin'." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David  slowly,  "  some  hosses 
will  balk  with  some  folks  an'  not  with  others. 
You  can't  most  alwus  gen'ally  tell." 

"  Didn't  the  deakin  have  a  chance  to  try 
him?" 

"  He  had  all  the  chance  he  ast  fer,"  replied 


I4  DAVID   HARUM. 

David.    "  Fact  is,  he  done  most  of  the  selling  as 
well  's  the  buyin',  himself." 

"  How's  that?  " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "it  come  about  like 
this:  After  I'd  got  the  hoss  where  I  c'd  handle 
him  I  begun  to  think  I'd  had  some  int'restin'  an' 
valu'ble  experience,  an'  it  wa'n't  scurcely  fair  to 
keep  it  all  to  myself.  I  didn't  want  no  patent 
on't,  an'  I  was  willin'  to  let  some  other  feller  git 
a  piece.  So  one  mornin',  week  before  last — let's 
see,  week  ago  Tuesday  it  was,  an'  a  mighty  nice 
mornin'  it  was,  too — one  o'  them  days  that  kind 
o'  lib'ral  up  your  mind — I  allowed  to  hitch  an' 
drive  up  past  the  deakin's  an'  back,  an'  mebbe 
git  somethin'  to  strengthen  my  faith,  et  cetery,  in 
case  I  run  acrost  him.  Wa'al,  's  I  come  along 
I  seen  the  deakin  putterin'  'round,  an'  I  waved 
my  hand  to  him  an'  went  by  a-kitin'.  I  went  up 
the  road  a  ways  an'  killed  a  little  time,  an'  when 
I  come  back  there  was  the  deakin,  as  I  expected. 
He  was  leanin'  over  the  fence,  an'  as  I  jogged  up 
he  hailed  me,  an'  I  pulled  up. 

"  '  Mornin',  Mr.  Harum,'  he  says. 

"  '  Mornin',  deakin,'  I  says.  '  How  are  ye? 
an'  how's  Mis'  Perkins  these  days? ' 

"'I'm  fair,'  he  says;  'fair  to  middlin',  but 
Mis'  Perkins  is  ailin'  some — as  usyul,'  he  says." 

'  They  do  say,"  put  in  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "  thet 
Mis'  Perkins  don't  hev  much  of  a  time  herself." 

"  Guess  she  hez  all  the  time  the'  is,"  answered' 
David.  "  Wa'al,"  he  went  on,  "  we  passed  the 
time  o'  day,  an'  talked  a  spell  about  the  weather 
an'  all  that,  an'  finely  I  straightened  up  the  lines 
as  if  I  was  goin'  on,  an'  then  I  says :  '  Oh,  by  the 
way,'  I  says,  '  I  jest  thought  on't.  I  heard  Dom 
inie  White  was  lookin'  fer  a  hoss  that  'd  suit  him.' 


DAVID   HARUM.  15 

'  I  hain't  heard,'  he  says;  but  I  see  in  a  minute  he 
had — an'  it  really  was  a  fact — an'  I  says:  '  I've 
got  a  roan  colt  risin'  five,  that  I  took  on  a  debt 
a  spell  ago,  that  I'll  sell  reasonable,  that's  as  like 
ly  an'  nice  ev'ry  way  a  young  hoss  as  ever  I 
owned.  I  don't  need  him/  I  says,  '  an'  didn't 
want  to  take  him,  but  it  was  that  or  nothin'  at  the 
time  an'  glad  to  git  it,  an'  I'll  sell  him  a  barg'in. 
Now  what  I  want  to  say  to  you,  deakin,  is  this: 
That  hoss  'd  suit  the  dominie  to  a  tee  in  my  opin 
ion,  but  the  dominie  won't  come  to  me.  Now  if 
you  was  to  say  to  him — bein'  in  his  church  an' 
all  thet,'  I  says,  *  that  you  c'd  git  him  the  right 
kind  of  a  hoss,  he'd  believe  you,  an'  you  an'  me  'd 
be  doin'  a  little  stroke  of  bus'nis,  an'  a  favor  to 
the  dominie  into  the  bargain.  The  dominie's 
well  off,'  I  says,  *  an'  c'n  afford  to  drive  a  good 
hoss.' " 

"  What  did  the  deakin  say?  "  asked  Aunt  Pol 
ly  as  David  stopped  for  breath. 

"  I  didn't  expect  him  to  jump  down  my 
throat,"  he  answered;  "  but  I  seen  him  prick  up 
his  ears,  an'  all  the  time  I  was  talkin'  I  noticed 
him  lookin'  my  hoss  over,  head  an'  foot.  '  Now 
I  'member,'  he  says,  '  hearin'  sunthin'  'bout  Mr. 
White's  lookin'  fer  a  hoss,  though  when  you  fust 
spoke  on't  it  had  slipped  my  mind.  Of  course/ 
he  says,  '  the'  ain't  any  real  reason  why  Mr.  White 
shouldn't  deal  with  you  direct,  an'  yit  mebbe  I 
could  do  more  with  him  'n  you  could.  But/  he 
says,  '  I  wa'n't  cal'latin'  to  go  t'  the  village  this 
mornin',  an'  I  sent  my  hired  man  off  with  my 
drivin'  hoss.  Mebbe  I'll  drop  'round  in  a  day  or 
two/  he  says,  '  an'  look  at  the  roan.' 

'You   mightn't   ketch   me/   I   says,   'an'   1 
want  to  show  him  myself;  an'  more'n  that/  I 


j6  DAVID    HARUM. 

says,  '  Dug  Robinson's  after  the  dominie.  Ill 
tell  ye/  I  says,  '  you  jest  git  in  'ith  me  an'  go 
down  an'  look  at  him,  an'  I'll  send  ye  back  or 
drive  ye  back,  an'  if  you've  got  anythin'  special 
on  hand  you  needn't  be  gone  three  quarters  of 
an  hour/  I  says." 

"  He  come,  did  he?"  inquired  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"  He  done  so,"  said  David  sententiously. 
"  Jest  as  I  knowed  he  would,  after  he'd  hem'd  an' 
haw'd  about  so  much,  an'  he  rode  a  mile  an'  a 
half  livelier  'n  he  done  in  a  good  while,  I  reckon. 
He  had  to  pull  that  old  broadbrim  of  his'n  down 
to  his  ears,  an'  don't  you  fergit  it.  He,  he,  he,  he! 
The  road  was  jest  full  o'  hosses.  Wa'al,  we  drove 
into  the  yard,  an'  I  told  the  hired  man  to  unhitch 
the  bay  hoss  an'  fetch  out  the  roan,  an'  while  he 
was  bein'  unhitched  the  deakin  stood  'round  an* 
never  took  his  eyes  off'n  him,  an'  I  knowed  I 
wouldn't  sell  the  deakin  no  roan  hoss  that  day, 
even  if  I  wanted  to.  But  when  he  come  out  I 
begun  to  crack  him  up,  an'  I  talked  hoss  fer  all 
I  was  wuth.  The  deakin  looked  him  over  in  a 
don't-care  kind  of  a  way,  an'  didn't  'parently  give 
much  heed  to  what  I  was  sayin'.  Finely  I  says, 
'Wa'al,  what  do  you  think  of  him?'  '  Wa'al/ 
he  says,  '  he  seems  to  be  a  likely  enough  critter, 
but  I  don't  believe  he'd  suit  Mr.  White— 'fraid 
not/  he  says.  'What  you  askin'  fer  him?'  he 
says.  *  One-fifty/  I  says,  '  an'  he's  a  cheap  hoss 
at  the  money';  but,"  added  the  speaker  with  a 
laugh,  "  I  knowed  I  might  's  well  of  said  a  thou- 
san'.  The  deakin  wa'n't  buyin'  no  roan  colts  that 
mornin'." 

"  What  did  he  say?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

'  Wa'al/  he  says,  '  wa'al,  I  guess  you  ought 
to  git  that  much  fer  him,  but  I'm  'fraid  he  ain't 


DAVID    HARUM.  17 

what  Mr.  White  wants/  An'  then,  '  That's  quite 
a  hoss  we  come  down  with/  he  says.  '  Had  him 
long?'  *  Jes'  long  'nough  to  git  'quainted  with 
him,'  I  says.  '  Don't  you  want  the  roan  fer  your 
own  use? '  I  says.  '  Mebbe  we  c'd  shade  the  price 
a  little.'  '  No,'  he  says,  '  I  guess  not.  I  don't 
need  another  hoss  jes'  now.'  An'  then,  after  a 
minute  he  says :  *  Say,  mebbe  the  bay  hoss  we 
drove  'd  come  nearer  the  mark  fer  White,  if  he's 
all  right.  Jest  as  soon  I'd  look  at  him? '  he  says. 
'  Wa'al,  I  hain't  no  objections,  but  I  guess  he's 
more  of  a  hoss  than  the  dominie  'd  care  for,  but 
I'll  go  an'  fetch  him  out/  I  says.  So  I  brought 
him  out,  an'  the  deakin  looked  him  all  over.  I 
see  it  was  a  case  of  love  at  fust  sight,  as  the  story 
books  says.  '  Looks  all  right/  he  says.  '  I'll 
tell  ye/  I  says,  '  what  the  feller  I  bought  him  of 
told  me.'  '  What's  that? '  says  the  deakin.  '  He 
said  to  me/  I  says,  '"that  hoss  hain't  got  a  scratch 
ner  a  pimple  on  him.  He's  sound  an'  kind,  an' 
'11  stand  without  hitchin',  an'  a  lady  c'd  drive  him 
as  well  's  a  man." ' 

"  '  That's  what  he  said  to  me/  I  says,  '  an'  it's 
every  word  on't  true.  You've  seen  whether  or 
not  he  c'n  travel/  I  says,  '  an',  so  fur  's  I've  seen, 
he  ain't  'fraid  of  nothinV  'D'ye  want  to  sell 
him?'  the  deakin  says.  'Wa'al/  I  says,  'I  ain't 
offerin'  him  fer  sale.  You'll  go  a  good  ways/  I 
says,  '  'fore  you'll  strike  such  another;  but,  of 
course,  he  ain't  the  only  hoss  in  the  world,  an' 
I  never  had  anythin'  in  the  hoss  line  I  wouldn't 
sell  at  some  price.'  '  Wa'al/  he  says,  '  what  d'  ye 
ask  fer  him?  '  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  if  my  own  brother 
was  to  ask  me  that  question  I'd  say  to  him  two 
hunderd  dollars,  cash  down,  an'  I  wouldn't  hold 
the  offer  open  an  hour/  I  says." 


jg  DAVID    HARUM. 

"  My!  "  ejaculated  Aunt  Polly.  "  Did  he  take 
you  up?  " 

"  '  That's  more'n  I  give  fer  a  hoss  'n  a  good 
while/  he  says,  shakin'  his  head,  '  an'  more'n  I 
c'n  afford,  I'm  'fraid.'  'All  right/  I  says;  '  I  c'n 
afford  to  keep  him  ';  but  I  knew  I  had  the  deakin 
same  as  the  woodchuck  had  Skip.  '  Hitch  up  the 
roan/  I  says  to  Mike;  'the  deakin  wants  to  be 
took  up  to  his  house.  '  Is  that  your  last  word?' 
he  says.  *  That's  what  it  is/  I  says.  '  Two  hun- 
derd,  cash  down/  " 

"Didn't  ye  dast  to  trust  the  deakin?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"  Polly,"  said  David,  "  the's  a  number  of  holes 
in  a  ten-foot  ladder."  Mrs.  Bixbee  seemed  to 
understand  this  rather  ambiguous  rejoinder. 

"  He  must  'a'  squirmed  some,"  she  remarked. 
David  laughed. 

"  The  deakin  ain't  much  used  to  payin'  the 
other  feller's  price,"  he  said,  "  an'  it  was  like  pull- 
in'  teeth;  but  he  wanted  that  hoss  more'n  a  cow 
wants  a  calf,  an'  after  a  little  more  squimmidgin' 
he  hauled  out  his  wallet  an'  forked  over.  Mike 
come  out  with  the  roan,  an'  off  the  deakin  went, 
leadin'  the  bay  hoss." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  looking  up 
at  her  brother,  "  thet  after  all  the'  was  anythin' 
you  said  to  the  deakin  thet  he  could  ketch  holt 
on." 

"  The'  wa'n't  nothin'/'  he  replied.  ''  The  only 
thing  he  c'n  complain  about's  what  I  didn't  say 
to  him." 

"  Hain't  he  said  anythin'  to  ye?  "  Mrs.  Bixbee 
inquired. 

"  He,  he,  he,  he!  He  hain't  but  once,  an'  the' 
wa'n't  but  little  of  it  then." 


DAVID    HARUM,  ig 

"How?" 

"  Wa'al,  the  day  but  one  after  the  deakin  sold 
himself  Mr.  Stickin'-Plaster  I  had  an  arrant  three 
four  mile  or  so  up  past  his  place,  an'  when  I  was 
comin'  back,  along  'bout  four  or  half  past,  it 
come  on  to  rain  like  all  possessed.  I  had  my  old 
umbrel' — though  it  didn't  hender  me  f'm  gettin' 
more  or  less  wet — an'  I  sent  the  old  mare  along 
fer  all  she  knew.  As  I  come  along  to  within  a 
mile  f'm  the  deakin's  house  I  seen  somebody  in 
the  road,  an'  when  I  come  up  closter  I  see  it  was 
the  deakin  himself,  in  trouble,  an'  I  kind  o'  slowed 
up  to  see  what  was  goin'  on.  There  he  was,  set- 
tin'  all  humped  up  with  his  ole  broad-brim  hat 
slopin'  down  his  back,  a-sheddin'  water  like  a 
roof.  Then  I  seen  him  lean  over  an'  larrup  the 
hoss  with  the  ends  of  the  lines  fer  all  he  was  wuth. 
It  appeared  he  hadn't  no  whip,  an'  it  wouldn't 
done  him  no  good  if  he'd  had.  Wa'al,  sir,  rain 
or  no  rain,  I  jest  pulled  up  to  watch  him.  He'd 
larrup  a  spell,  an'  then  he'd  set  back;  an'  then 
he'd  lean  over  an'  try  it  agin,  harder'n  ever.  Scat 

my !    I  thought  I'd  die  a-laughin'.    I  couldn't 

hardly  cluck  to  the  mare  when  I  got  ready  to 
move  on.  I  drove  alongside  an'  pulled  up.  '  Hul 
lo,  deakin,'  I  says,  '  what's  the  matter? '  He 
looked  up  at  me,  an'  I  won't  say  he  was  the  mad 
dest  man  I  ever  see,  but  he  was  long  ways  the 
maddest-/0o&w'  man,  an'  he  shook  his  fist  at  me 
jes'  like  one  o'  the  unregen'rit.  '  Consarn  ye, 
Dave  Harum ! '  he  says,  '  I'll  hev  the  law  on  ye 
fer  this.'  '  What  fer?'  I  says.  '  I  didn't  make  it 
come  on  to  rain,  did  I?'  I  says.  'You  know 
mighty  well  what  fer,'  he  says.  '  You  sold  me 
this  damned  beast,'  he  says,  '  an'  he's  balked  with 
me  nine  times  this  afternoon,  an'  I'll  fix  ye  for  V 


20  DAVID   HARUM. 

/ 

he  says.  '  Wa'al,  deakin,'  I  says,  '  I'm  'fraid  the 
squire's  office  '11  be  shut  up  'fore  you  git  there, 
but  I'll  take  any  word  you'd  like  to  send.  You 
know  I  told  ye/  I  says,  '  that  he'd  stand  'ithout 
hitchin'.'  An'  at  that  he  only  jest  kind  o'  choked 
an'  sputtered.  He  was  so  mad  he  couldn't  say 
nothin',  an'  on  I  drove,  an'  when  I  got  about  forty 
rod  or  so  I  looked  back,  an'  there  was  the  deakin 
a-comin'  along  the  road  with  as  much  of  his 
shoulders  as  he  could  git  under  his  hat  an'  leadin' 
his  new  hoss.  He,  he,  he,  he!  Oh,  my  stars  an* 
garters!  Say,  Polly,  it  paid  me  fer  bein'  born 
into  this  vale  o'  tears.  It  did,  I  declare  for't !  " 

Aunt  Polly  wiped  her  eyes  on  her  apron. 

"  But,  Dave,"  she  said,  "  did  the  deakin  really 
say — that  word?  " 

"  Wa'al,"  he  replied,  "  if  'twa'n't  that  it  was 
the  puttiest  imitation  on't  that  ever  I  heard." 

"  David,"  she  continued,  "  don't  you  think  it 
putty  mean  to  badger  the  deakin  so't  he  swore, 
an'  then  laugh  'bout  it?  An'  I  s'pose  you've  told 
the  story  all  over." 

"  Mis'  Bixbee,"  said  David  emphatically,  "  if 
I'd  paid  good  money  to  see  a  funny  show  I'd  be 
a  blamed  fool  if  I  didn't  laugh,  wouldn't  I?  That 
specticle  of  the  deakin  cost  me  consid'able,  but  it 
was  more'n  wuth  it.  But,"  he  added,  "  I  guess, 
the  way  the  thing  stands  now,  I  ain't  so  much 
out  on  the  hull." 

Mrs.  Bixbee  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Of  course,  you  know  Dick  Larrabee?"  he 
asked. 

She  nodded. 

"  Wa'al,  three  four  days  after  the  shower,  an* 
the  story  'd  got  aroun'  some — as  you  say,  the 
deakin  is  consid'able  of  a  talker — I  got  holt  of 


DAVID   HARUM.  21 

Dick — I've  done  him  some  favors  an'  he  natur'ly 
expects  more — an'  I  says  to  him :  '  Dick/  I  says, 
'  I  hear  't  Deakin  Perkins  has  got  a  hoss  that 
don't  jest  suit  him — hain't  got  knee-action 
enough  at  times/  I  says,  *  an'  mebbe  he'll  sell 
him  reasonable.'  '  I've  heerd  somethin'  about  it/ 
says  Dick,  laughin'.  '  One  of  them  kind  o'  hosses 
't  you  don't  like  to  git  ketched  out  in  the  rain 
with/  he  says.  '  Jes'  so/  I  says.  '  Now/  I  says, 

*  I've  got  a  notion  't  I'd  like  to  own  that  hoss  at 
a  price,  an'  that  mebbe  /  c'd  git  him  home  even 
if  it  did  rain.    Here's  a  hunderd  an'  ten/  I  says, 

*  an'  I  want  you  to  see  how  fur  it'll  go  to  buyin' 
him.     If  you  git  me  the  hoss  you  needn't  bring 
none  on't  back.     Want  to  try? '  I  says.     '  All 
right/  he  says,  an'  took  the  money.     '  But/  he 
says,  '  won't  the  deakin  suspicion  that  it  comes 
from  you? '     '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  my  portrit  ain't 
on  none  o'  the  bills,  an'  I  reckon  you  won't  tell 
him  so,  out  an'  out/  an'  off  he  went.    Yistidy  he 
come  in,  an'  I  says, '  Wa'al,  done  anythin'?  '  '  The 
hoss  is  in  your  barn/  he  says.     *  Good  fer  you! ' 
I  says.     'Did  you  make  anythin'?'     'I'm  satis 
fied/  he  says.     '  I  made  a  ten-dollar  note.'    An* 
that's   the    net   results    on't,"    concluded   David, 
"  that  I've  got  the  hoss,  an'  he's  cost  me  jest 
thirty-five  dollars." 


CHAPTER  III. 

MASTER  JACKY  CARLING  was  a  very  nice  boy, 
but  not  at  that  time  in  his  career  the  safest  per 
son  to  whom  to  intrust  a  missive  in  case  its  sure 
and  speedy  delivery  were  a  matter  of  importance. 
But  he  protested  with  so  much  earnestness  and 
good  will  that  it  should  be  put  into  the  very  first 
post-box  he  came  to  on  his  way  to  school,  and 
that  nothing  could  induce  him  to  forget  it,  that 
Mary  Blake,  his  aunt,  confidante  and  not  unfre- 
quently  counsel  and  advocate,  gave  it  him  to 
post,  and  dismissed  the  matter  from  her  mind. 
Unfortunately  the  weather,  which  had  been  very 
frosty,  had  changed  in  the  night  to  a  summer- 
like  mildness.  As  Jacky  opened  the  door,  three 
or  four  of  his  school-fellows  were  passing.  He 
felt  the  softness  of  the  spring  morning,  and  to 
their  injunction  to  "  Hurry  up  and  come  along!  " 
replied  with  an  entreaty  to  "  Wait  a  minute  till 
he  left  his  overcoat "  (all  boys  hate  an  overcoat), 
and  plunged  back  into  the  house. 

If  John  Lenox  (John  Knox  Lenox)  had  re 
ceived  Miss  Blake's  note  of  condolence  and  sym 
pathy,  written  in  reply  to  his  own,  wherein,  be 
sides  speaking  of  his  bereavement,  he  had  made 
allusion  to  some  changes  in  his  prospects  and 
necessary  alterations  in  his  ways  for  a  time, 

might  perhaps  have  read  between  the  lines 

22 


DAVID   HARUM.  23 

something  more  than  merely  a  kind  expression  of 
her  sorrow  for  the  trouble  which  had  come  upon 
him,  and  the  reminder  that  he  had  friends  who, 
if  they  could  not  do  more  to  lessen  his  grief, 
would  give  him  their  truest  sympathy.  And  if 
some  days  later  he  had  received  a  second  note, 
saying  that  she  and  her  people  were  about  to  go 
away  for  some  months,  and  asking  him  to  come 
and  see  them  before  their  departure,  it  is  pos 
sible  that  very  many  things  set  forth  in  this  nar 
rative  would  not  have  happened. 

Life  had  always  been  made  easy  for  John 
Lenox,  and  his  was  not  the  temperament  to  inter 
pose  obstacles  to  the  process.  A  course  at 
Andover  had  been  followed  by  two  years  at  Prince 
ton;  but  at  the  end  of  the  second  year  it  had  oc 
curred  to  him  that  practical  life  ought  to  begin 
for  him,  and  he  had  thought  it  rather  fine  of  him 
self  to  undertake  a  clerkship  in  the  office  of  Rush 
&  Co.,  where  in  the  ensuing  year  and  a  half  or  so, 
though  he  took  his  work  in  moderation,  he  got  a 
fair  knowledge  of  accounts  and  the  ways  and 
methods  of  "  the  Street."  But  that  period  of  it 
was  enough.  He  found  himself  not  only  regret 
ting  the  abandonment  of  his  college  career,  but 
feeling  that  the  thing  for  which  he  had  given 
it  up  had  been  rather  a  waste  of  time.  He  came 
to  the  conclusion  that,  though  he  had  entered 
college  later  than  most,  even  now  a  further  ac 
quaintance  with  text-books  and  professors  was 
more  to  be  desired  than  with  ledgers  and  brokers. 
His  father  (somewhat  to  his  wonderment,  and 
possibly  a  little  to  his  chagrin)  seemed  rather  to 
welcome  the  suggestion  that  he  spend  a  couple 
of  years  in  Europe,  taking  some  lectures  at 


24  DAVID   HARUM. 

Heidelberg  or  elsewhere,  and  traveling;  and  in 
the  course  of  that  time  he  acquired  a  pretty  fair 
working  acquaintance  with  German,  brought  his 
knowledge  of  French  up  to  about  the  same  point, 
and  came  back  at  the  end  of  two  years  with  a 
fine  and  discriminating  taste  in  beer,  and  a  scar 
over  his  left  eyebrow  which  could  be  seen  if  at 
tention  were  called  to  it. 

He  started  upon  his  return  without  any  defi 
nite  intentions  or  for  any  special  reason,  except 
that  he  had  gone  away  for  two  years  and  that 
the  two  years  were  up.  He  had  carried  on  a  des 
ultory  correspondence  with  his  father,  who  had 
replied  occasionally,  rather  briefly,  but  on  the 
whole  affectionately.  He  had  noticed  that  dur 
ing  the  latter  part  of  his  stay  abroad  the  replies 
had  been  more  than  usually  irregular,  but  had 
attributed  no  special  significance  to  the  fact 
It  was  not  until  afterward  that  it  occurred  to  him 
that  in  all  their  correspondence  his  father  had 
never  alluded  in  any  way  to  his  return. 

On  the  passenger  list  of  the  Altruria  John 
came  upon  the  names  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Julius 
Carling  and  Miss  Blake. 

"  Blake,  Blake,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Carling 
— I  seem  to  remember  to  have  known  that  name 
at  some  time.  It  must  be  little  Mary  Blake  whom 
I  knew  as  a  small  girl  years  ago,  and,  yes,  Carl 
ing  was  the  name  of  the  man  her  sister  married. 
Well,  well,  I  wonder  what  she  is  like.  Of  course, 
I  shouldn't  know  her  from  Eve  now,  or  she  me 
from  Adam.  All  I  can  remember  seems  to  be  a 
pair  of  very  slim  and  active  legs,  a  lot  of  flying 
hair,  a  pair  of  brownish-gray  or  grayish-brown 
eyes,  and  that  I  thought  her  a  very  nice  girl,  as 
girls  went.  But  it  doesn't  in  the  least  follow  that 


DAVID   HARUM.  25 

I  might  think  so  now,  and  shipboard  is  pretty 
close  quarters  for  seven  or  eight  days." 

Dinner  is  by  all  odds  the  chief  event  of  the 
day  on  board  ship  to  those  who  are  able  to  dine, 
and  they  will  leave  all  other  attractions,  even  the 
surpassingly  interesting  things  which  go  on  in 
the  smoking  room,  at  once  on  the  sound  of  the 
gong  of  promise.  On  this  first  night  of  the  voy 
age  the  ship  was  still  in  smooth  water  at  dinner 
time,  and  many  a  place  was  occupied  that  would 
know  its  occupant  for  the  first,  and  very  possibly 
for  the  last,  time.  The  passenger  list  was  fairly 
large,  but  not  full.  John  had  assigned  to  him 
a  seat  at  a  side  table.  He  was  hungry,  having 
had  no  luncheon  but  a  couple  of  biscuits  and  a 
glass  of  "  bitter,"  and  was  taking  his  first  mouth 
ful  of  Perrier-Jouet,  after  the  soup,  and  scanning 
the  dinner  card,  when  the  people  at  his  table 
came  in.  The  man  of  the  trio  was  obviously  an 
invalid  of  the  nervous  variety,  and  the  most  de 
cided  type.  The  small,  dark  woman  who  took 
the  corner  seat  at  his  left  was  undoubtedly,  from 
the  solicitous  way  in  which  she  adjusted  a  small 
shawl  about  his  shoulders — to  his  querulous  un 
easiness — his  wife.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
white  in  the  dark  hair,  brushed  smoothly  back 
from  her  face.  A  tall  girl,  with  a  mass  of 
brown  hair  under  a  felt  traveling  hat,  followed 
her,  and  took  the  corner  seat  at  the  man's  right. 

These  were  all  the  details  of  the  party's  ap 
pearance  that  John  discovered  in  the  brief  glance 
he  allowed  himself  at  the  moment.  But  though 
their  faces,  so  far  as  he  had  seen  them,  were 
unfamiliar  to  him,  their  identity  was  made 
plain  to  him  by  the  first  words  which  caught 
his  ear.  There  were  two  soups  on  the  menu, 


26  DAVID   HARUM. 

and  the  man's  mind  instantly  poised  itself  be 
tween  them. 

"Which  soup  shall  I  take?"  he  asked, 
turning  with  a  frown  of  uncertainty  to  his 
wife. 

"  I  should  say  the  consomme,  Julius,"  was  the 
reply. 

44 1  thought  I  should  like  the  broth  better,"  he 
objected. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  disagree  with  you,"  she 
said. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  have  the  consomme" 
he  argued,  looking  with  appeal  to  his  wife  and 
then  to  the  girl  at  his  right.  "  Which  would  you 
take,  Mary?" 

"  I?  "  said  the  young  woman;  "  I  should  take 
both  in  my  present  state  of  appetite. — Steward, 
bring  both  soups. — What  wine  shall  I  order  for 
you,  Julius?  I  want  some  champagne,  and  I  pre 
scribe  it  for  you.  After  your  mental  struggle 
over  the  soup  question  you  need  a  quick  stimu 
lant." 

"  Don't  you  think  a  red  wine  would  be  better 
for  me?  "  he  asked;  "  or  perhaps  some  sauterne? 
I'm  afraid  that  I  sha'n't  go  to  sleep  if  I  drink 
champagne.  In  fact,  I  don't  think  I  had  better 
take  any  wine  at  all.  Perhaps  some  ginger  ale  or 
Apollinaris  water." 

"  No,"  she  said  decisively,  "  whatever  you  de 
cide  upon,  you  know  that  you'll  think  what  I 
/have  would  be  better  for  you,  and  I  shall  want 
more  than  one  glass,  and  Alice  wants  some, 
too.  Oh,  yes,  you  do,  and  I  shall  order  a  quart 
of  champagne. — Steward  " — giving  her  order — 
"  please  be  as  quick  as  you  can." 


DAVID   HARUM.  2/ 

John  had  by  this  fully  identified  his  neigh 
bors,  and  the  talk  which  ensued  between  them, 
consisting  mostly  of  controversies  between  the 
invalid  and  his  family  over  the  items  of  the 
bill  of  fare,  every  course  being  discussed  as 
to  its  probable  effect  upon  his  stomach  or  his 
nerves — the  question  being  usually  settled  with 
a  whimsical  high-handedness  by  the  young 
woman — gave  him  a  pretty  good  notion  of 
their  relations  and  the  state  of  affairs  in  gen 
eral.  Notwithstanding  Miss  Blake's  benevolent 
despotism,  the  invalid  was  still  wrangling 
feebly  over  some  last  dish  when  John  rose  and 
went  to  the  smoking-room  for  his  coffee  and 
cigarette. 

When  he  stumbled  forth  in  search  of  his  bath 
next  morning  the  steamer  was  well  out  at  sea,  and 
rolling  and  pitching  in  a  way  calculated  to  disturb 
the  gastric  functions  of  the  hardiest.  But,  after 
a  shower  of  sea  water  and  a  rub  down,  he  found 
himself  with  a  feeling  for  bacon  and  eggs  that 
made  him  proud  of  himself,  and  he  went  in  to 
breakfast  to  find,  rather  to  his  surprise,  that  Miss 
Blake  was  before  him,  looking  as  fresh — well,  as 
fresh  as  a  handsome  girl  of  nineteen  or  twenty 
and  in  perfect  health  could  look.  She  acknowl 
edged  his  perfunctory  bow  as  he  took  his  seat 
with  a  stiff  little  bend  of  the  head ;  but  later  on, 
when  the  steward  was  absent  on  some  order,  he 
elicited  a  "  Thank  you !  "  by  handing  her  some 
thing  which  he  saw  she  wanted ;  and,  one  thing 
leading  to  another,  as  things  have  a  way  of  doing 
where  young  and  attractive  people  are  concerned, 
they  were  presently  engaged  in  an  interchange  of 
small  talk.  But  before  John  was  moved  to  the 


e3  DAVID   HARUM, 

point  of  disclosing  himself  on  the  warrant  of  a 
former  acquaintance  she  had  finished  her  break 
fast. 

The  weather  continued  very  stormy  for  two 
days,  and  during  that  time  Miss  Blake  did  not 
appear  at  table.  At  any  rate,  if  she  breakfasted 
there  it  was  either  before  or  after  his  appearance, 
and  he  learned  afterward  that  she  had  taken 
luncheon  and  dinner  in  her  sister's  room. 

The  morning  of  the  third  day  broke  bright 
and  clear.  There  was  a  long  swell  upon  the  sea, 
but  the  motion  of  the  boat  was  even  and  en 
durable  to  all  but  the  most  susceptible.  As  the 
morning  advanced  the  deck  began  to  fill  with 
promenaders,  and  to  be  lined  with  chairs,  hold 
ing  wrapped- up  figures,  showing  faces  of  all 
shades  of  green  and  gray. 

John,  walking  for  exercise,  and  at  a  wholly 
unnecessary  pace,  turning  at  a  sharp  angle  around 
the  deck  house,  fairly  ran  into  the  girl  about 
whom  he  had  been  wondering  for  the  last  two 
days.  She  received  his  somewhat  incoherent 
apologies,  regrets,  and  self-accusations  in  such  a 
spirit  of  forgiveness  that  before  long  they  were 
supplementing  their  first  conversation  with  some 
thing  more  personal  and  satisfactory;  and  when 
he  came  to  the  point  of  saying  that  half  by  acci 
dent  he  had  found  out  her  name,  and  begged  to 
be  allowed  to  tell  her  his  own,  she  looked  at  him 
with  a  smile  of  frank  amusement  and  said:  "It 
is  quite  unnecessary,  Mr.  Lenox.  I  knew  you  in 
stantly  when  I  saw  you  at  table  the  first  night? 
but,"  she  added  mischievously,  "  I  am  afraid  your 
memory  for  people  you  have  known  is  not  so 
good  as  mine." 

"  Well,"  said  John,  "  you  will  admit,  I  think, 


DAVID    HARUM. 


29 


that  the  change  from  a  little  girl  in  short  frocks 
to  a  tall  young  woman  in  a  tailor-made  gown 
is  more  disguising  than  that  which  happens  to 
a  boy  of  fifteen  or  so.  I  saw  your  name  in  the 
passenger  list  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carling,  and 
wondered  if  it  could  be  the  Mary  Blake  whom 
I  really  did  remember,  and  the  first  night  at  din 
ner,  when  I  heard  your  sister  call  Mr.  Carling 
*  Julius/  and  heard  him  call  you  '  Mary/  I  was 
sure  of  you.  But  I  hardly  got  a  fair  look  at  your 
face,  and,  indeed,  I  confess  that  if  I  had  had  no 
clew  at  all  I  might  not  have  recognized  you." 

"  I  think  you  would  have  been  quite  excus 
able,"  she  replied,  "  and  whether  you  would  or 
would  not  have  known  me  is  '  one  of  those  things 
that  no  fellow  can  find  out/  and  isn't  of  supreme 
importance  anyway.  We  each  know  who  the 
other  is  now,  at  all  events." 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  I  am  happy  to  think  that 
we  have  come  to  a  conclusion  on  that  point.  But 
how  does  it  happen  that  I  have  heard  nothing  of 
you  all  these  years,  or  you  of  me,  as  I  suppose?  " 

"  For  the  reason,  I  fancy,"  she  replied,  "  that 
during  that  period  of  short  frocks  with  me  my 
sister  married  Mr.  Carling  and  took  me  with  her 
to  Chicago,  where  Mr.  Carling  was  in  business, 
We  have  been  back  in  New  York  only  for  the 
last  two  or  three  years." 

"  It  might  have  been  on  the  cards  that  I 
should  come  across  you  in  Europe,"  said  John. 
"  The  beaten  track  is  not  very  broad.  How  long 
have  you  been  over?  " 

"Only  about  six  months,"  she  replied.  "  We 
have  been  at  one  or  another  of  the  German  spas 
most  of  the  time,  as  we  went  abroad  for  Mr. 
Carling's  health,  and  we  are  on  our  way  home 


20  DAVID  HARUM. 

on  about  such  an  impulse  as  that  which  started 
us  away — he  thinks  now  that  he  will  be  better 
there." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  not  derived  much 
pleasure  from  your  European  experiences,"  said 
John. 

"  Pleasure !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  If  ever  you 
saw  a  young  woman  who  was  glad  and  thankful 
to  turn  her  face  toward  home,  7  am  that  person. 
I  think  that  one  of  the  heaviest  crosses  humanity 
has  to  bear  is  having  constantly  to  decide  be 
tween  two  or  more  absolutely  trivial  conclusions 
in  one's  own  affairs;  but  when  one  is  called  upon 
to  multiply  one's  useless  perplexities  by,  say,  ten, 
life  is  really  a  burden. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  added  after  a  pause,  "  you 
couldn't  help  hearing  our  discussions  at  dinner 
the  other  night,  and  I  have  wondered  a  little  what 
you  must  have  thought." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  did  hear  it.  Is  it  the  regu 
lar  thing,  if  I  may  ask?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  with  a  tone  of  sadness; 
"  it  has  grown  to  be." 

"  It  must  be  very  trying  at  times,"  John  re 
marked. 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  she  said,  "  and  would  often 
be  unendurable  to  me  if  it  were  not  for  my  sense 
of  humor,  as  it  would  be  to  my  sister  if  it  were 
not  for  her  love,  for  Julius  is  really  a  very  lovable 
man,  and  I,  too,  am  very  fond  of  him.  But  I 
must  laugh  sometimes,  though  my  better  nature 
should  rather,  I  suppose,  impel  me  to  sighs." 

' '  A  little  laughter  is  much  more  worth/ " 
he  quoted. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THEY  were  leaning  upon  the  rail  at  the  stern 
of  the  ship,  which  was  going  with  what  little 
wind  there  was,  and  a  following  sea,  with  which, 
as  it  plunged  down  the  long  slopes  of  the  waves, 
the  vessel  seemed  to  be  running  a  victorious  race, 
The  water  was  a  deep  sapphire,  and  in  the  wake 
the  sunlight  turned  the  broken  wave-crests  to  a 
vivid  emerald.  The  air  was  of  a  caressing  soft 
ness,  and  altogether  it  was  a  day  and  scene  of 
indescribable  beauty  and  inspiration.  For  a 
while  there  was  silence  between  them,  which 
John  broke  at  last. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  one  would  best 
show  his  appreciation  of  all  this  by  refraining 
from  the  comment  which  must  needs  be  com 
paratively  commonplace,  but  really  this  is  so 
superb  that  I  must  express  some  of  my  emotion 
even  at  the  risk  of  lowering  your  opinion  of  my 
good  taste,  provided,  of  course,  that  you  have 
one." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  it  may  relieve 
your  mind,  if  you  care,  to  know  that  had  you 
kept  silent  an  instant  longer  I  should  have  taken 
the  risk  of  lowering  your  opinion  of  my  good 
taste,  provided,  of  course,  that  you  have  one,  by 
remarking  that  this  was  perfectly  magnificent." 

"  I  should  think  that  this  would  be  the  sort 

s* 


-2  DAVID   IIARUM. 

of  tl. iv  to  get  Mr.  Carling  on  deck.  This  air  and 
sun  would  I. rare  liini  up."  said  John. 

Slu-  turned  to  him  with  a  lauidi,  and  said: 
"  That  is  the  general  opinion,  or  was  two  hours 
•!-.,);  but  I'm  aliaid  it's  out  of  the  question  HOW, 
unless  wo  ran  manage  it  after  luncheon." 

"  \\liat  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  with  a  pu/- 
vli-il  smile  at  the  mixture  of  annoyance  and 
amusement  visible  in  lier  faee.  "  Same  old 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "same  old  story,  \\hen 
I  went  to  my  breakfast  1  called  at  my  sister's 
room  and  said.  '  "  I  'onu%.  hovs  and  I'U'ls,  eome  out 
to  plav,  tin-  sun  doth  shine  as  bright  as  day,"  ami 

when  I've  had  my  breakfast  I'm  coming  to  lug 
you  both  on  deek.  It's  a  perfectly  glorious  morn - 
in:-,,  an. I  it  will  do  von  both  no  end  of  £Ood  after 
beinr,  shut  up  so  lon;>.'  '  All  ri^ht.'  my  sister 
answered,  '  Julius  has  quite  made  up  his  mind 
to  co  up  as  soon  as  he  is  dressed.  You  call  for 
U'i  in  half  an  hour,  and  we  will  be  ready.'" 

"  And  wouldn't  he  come-?  "  John  asked ;  "  and 
whv  in  >t  f  " 

"  1  Mi."  she  exclaimed  with  a  laui'Ji  and  a 
5hrm*  of  her  shoulders,  "  shoes." 

"Shoes!  "said   |olm.     "  What  do  vou  nu 

"  lust  what  I  say,"  was  the  rejoinder.  "  When 
1  went  back  to  the  room  1  found  my  brother-in- 
law  sittim;  on  the  t'ili;e  of  the  lounge,  or  whatever 
von  call  it.  all  ilressed  but  his  coat,  rubbing  his 
chin  between  his  tinker  and  thumb,  and  ^a/m^ 
with  despaiiinj*.  perplexity  at  his  feet.  It  seems 
that  mv  sister  had  ;;ot  past  all  the  other  dilem 
mas,  but  in  a  moment  ol  inadvertence  h;id  left 
the  shoe  question  to  him.  with  the  result  that  he 
had  put  on  one  russet  shoe  and  one  black  one, 


DAVID    IIAKUM.  33 

and  had   hired  them  up  before  discovering  the 

dib<  repancy." 

"I  don't  sec  anvllim;-;  very  difficult,  in  tliat 
situation,"  remarked  John. 

"Don't  you?"  she  said  scornfully.  "  No,  I 
suppose  not,  but  it  was  quite  enough  for  Julius, 
and  more  than  enough  for  my  sister  and  me.  His 
fir  I  notion  was  to  lake  off  hath  shoes  ami  begin 
all  over  again,  and  p< -i -haps  if  lie  had  been  allowed 
to  carry  it  out  he  would  have  been  all  right;  but 
Alice  was  silly  enough  1o  suggest  the  obvious 
thing  to  him — to  take  off  one,  and  put  on  th<: 

mate  to  the  other  and  thru  tin-  trouble  b<-gan. 
First  he  was  in  favor  of  the  black  shoes  as  being 
thicker  in  the  sole,  and  then  he  reflected  that  they 
hadn't  been  blackened  sim  r  coming  on  board. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  nr  •.<•!,  were  more  ap 
propriate  anyway,  but  the  blacks 
lace.  Had  1  noticed  whether  the-  men  on  board 
were  wearing  russet  or  black  as  a  rule,  and  did 
Alice  remember  whether  it  was  one  pf  the  i  ir  els 
or  one  of  the  blacks  that  he  was  saying  the  other 
day  pinched  his  toe?  Ib-  didn't  cjiiitc  like  the 
of  a  IttMd  shoe  with  dark  troir.ers,  and 
called  us  to  witness  that  those  he  had  on  were 
dark;  but  he  thought  lie  remembered  that  it  was 
the  black  shoe  which  pinched  him.  1 1'-  •  uppo-  ed 
he  could  change  his  trousers — and  so  on,  and  so 

on,  at  fnir,  <lc  «]J>u,  ti'l  lil>.,  sticking   out   fii-.t    one- 
foot  and  then  the  other,  lifting;  them  alternately  trj 
1  .r  scrutiny,  a])pealin;»;  ROW  Jo  Alice  and 
now    to    me,    and    gellm;-;    more    hopelessly    be 
wildered  .-'11  the  time.     It  went   on  that   way  for, 
it  seemed  to  me,  at  least  half  an  hour,  and  at  last 
',  '  Oh,  come  now,  Julii:  ,  take  ofT  the  brown 
shoe — it's    too    thin,    and    doesn't    go    with    your 


34  DAVID   HARUM. 

dark  trousers,  and  pinches  your  toe,  and  none  of 
the  men  are  wearing  them — and  just  put  on  the 
other  black  one,  and  come  along.  We're  all  suf 
focating  for  some  fresh  air,  and  if  you  don't  get 
started  pretty  soon  we  sha'n't  get  on  deck  to-day.' 
'  Get  on  deck! '  he  said,  looking  up  at  me  with  a 
puzzled  expression,  and  holding  fast  to  the  brown 
shoe  on  his  knee  with  both  hands,  as  if  he  were 
afraid  I  would  take  it  away  from  him  by  main 
strength — '  get  on  deck !  Why — why — I  believe 
I'd  better  not  go  out  this  morning,  don't  you? ' ' 

"  And  then?"  said  John  after  a  pause. 

"  Oh,"  she  replied,  "  I  looked  at  Alice,  and 
she  shook  her  head  as  much  to  say,  '  It's  no  use 
for  the  present/  and  I  fled  the  place." 

"M'm!"  muttered  John.  "He  must  have 
been  a  nice  traveling  companion.  Has  it  been 
like  that  all  the  time?" 

"  Most  of  it,"  she  said,  "  but  not  quite  all,  and 
this  morning  was  rather  an  exaggeration  of  the 
regular  thing.  But  getting  started  on  a  journey 
was  usually  pretty  awful.  Once  we  quite  missed 
our  train  because  he  couldn't  make  up  his  mind 
whether  to  put  on  a  light  overcoat  or  a  heavy 
one.  I  finally  settled  the  question  for  him,  but 
we  were  just  too  late." 

"  You  must  be  a  very  amiable  person,"  re 
marked  John. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not,"  she  declared,  "  but  Julius 
is,  and  it's  almost  impossible  to  be  really  put  out 
with  him,  particularly  in  his  condition.  I  have 
come  to  believe  that  he  can  not  help  it,  and  he 
submits  to  my  bullying  with  such  sweetness  that 
even  my  impatience  gives  way." 

"  Have  you  three  people  been  alone  together 
all  the  time?  "  John  asked. 


DAVID   HARUM.  35 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "except  for  four  or  five 
weeks.  We  visited  some  American  friends  in 
Berlin,  the  Nollises,  for  a  fortnight,  and  after  our 
visit  to  them  they  traveled  with  us  for  three 
weeks  through  South  Germany  and  Switzerland. 
\Ye  parted  with  them  at  Metz  only  about  three 
weeks  since." 

"  How  did  Mr.  Carling  seem  while  you  were 
all  together?"  asked  John,  looking  keenly  at  her. 

"  Oh,"  she  replied,  "  he  was  more  like  him 
self  than  I  have  seen  him  for  a  long  time — since 
he  began  to  break  down,  in  fact." 

He  turned  his  eyes  from  her  face  as  she  looked 
up  at  him,  and  as  he  did  not  speak  she  said  sug 
gestively,  "  You  are  thinking  something  you 
don't  quite  like  to  say,  but  I  believe  I  know 
pretty  nearly  what  it  is." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  John,  with  a  query. 

"  You  think  he  has  had  too  much  feminine 
companionship,  or  had  it  'too  exclusively.  Is 
that  it?  You  need  not  be  afraid  to  say  so." 

"  Well,"  said  John,  "  if  you  put  it  '  too  ex 
clusively/  I  will  admit  that  there  was  something 
of  the  sort  in  my  mind,  and,"  he  added,  "  if  you 
will  let  me  say  so,  it  must  at  times  have  been 
rather  hard  for  him  to  be  interested  or  amused — 
that  it  must  have — that  is  to  say " 

"  Oh,  say  it !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It  must  have 
been  very  dull  for  him.  Is  that  it  ?  " 

"  '  Father,'  "  said  John  with  a  grimace,  "  '  I 
can  not  tell  a  lie ! ' ; 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  your  hatchet  isn't 
very  sharp.  I  forgive  you.  But  really."  she 
added,  "  I  know  it  has  been  so.  You  will  laugh 
when  I  tell  you  the  one  particular  resource  we 
fell  back  upon." 


^6  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  Bid  me  to  laugh,  and  I  will  laugh,"  said 
John. 

"  Euchre!  "  she  said,  looking  at  him  defiantly. 
"  Two-handed  euchre!  We  have  played,  as  near 
ly  as  I  can  estimate,  fifteen  hundred  games, 
in  which  he  has  held  both  bowers  and  the  ace 
of  trumps — or  something  equally  victorious — I 
should  say  fourteen  hundred  times.  "  Oh!  "  she 
cried,  with  an  expression  of  loathing,  "  may  I 
never,  never,  never  see  a  card  again  as  long  as  I 
live !  "  John  laughed  without  restraint,  and  after 
a  petulant  little  moue  she  joined  him. 

"  May  I  light  up  my  pipe?  "  he  said.  "  I  will 
get  to  leeward." 

"  I  shall  not  mind  in  the  least,"  she  assented. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  asked,  "  does  Mr.  Carling 
smoke?" 

"  He  used  to,"  she  replied,  "  and  while  we 
were  with  the  Nollises  he  smoked  every  day,  but 
after  we  left  them  he  fell  back  into  the  notion 
that  it  was  bad  for  him." 

John  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe  in  silence,  and 
after  a  satisfactory  puff  or  two  said:  "  Will  Mr. 
Carling  go  in  to  dinner  to-night?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  think  he  will  if  it  is  no 
rougher  than  at  present." 

"  It  will  probably  be  smoother,"  said  John. 
"  You  must  introduce  me  to  him " 

"  Oh,"  she  interrupted,  "  of  course,  but  it  will 
hardly  be  necessary,  as  Alice  and  I  have  spoken 
so  often  to  him  of  you " 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  John  resumed,  "  that 
he  may  possibly  let  me  take  him  off  your  hands 
a  little,  and  after  dinner  will  be  the  best  time.  I 
think  if  I  can  get  him  into  the  smoking  room, 
that  a  cigar  and — and — something  hot  with  a  bit 


DAVID   HARUM.  37 

of  lemon  peel  and  so  forth  later  on  may  induce 
him  to  visit  with  me  for  a  while,  and  pass  the 
evening,  or  part  of  it." 

"  You  want  to  be  an  angel!  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  Oh,  I — we — shall  be  so  obliged!  I  know  it's 
just  what  he  wants — some  man  to  take  him  in 
hand." 

"  I'm  in  no  hurry  to  be  an  angel,"  said  John, 
laughing,  and,  with  a  bow,  "  It's  better  some 
times  to  be  near  the  rose  than  to  be  the  rose,  and 
you  are  proposing  to  overpay  me  quite.  I  shall 
enjoy  doing  what  I  proposed,  if  it  be  possible." 

Their  talk  then  drifted  off  into  various  chan 
nels  as  topics  suggested  themselves  until  the 
ship's  bell  sounded  the  luncheon  hour.  Miss 
Blake  went  to  join  her  sister  and  brother-in-law, 
but  John  had  some  bread  and  cheese  and  beer 
in  the  smoking  room.  It  appeared  that  the  ladies 
had  better  success  than  in  the  morning,  for  he 
saw  them  later  on  in  their  steamer  chairs  with 
Mr.  Carling,  who  was  huddled  in  many  wraps, 
with  the  flaps  of  his  cap  down  over  his  ears.  All 
the  chairs  were  full — John's  included  (as  often 
happens  to  easy-tempered  men  on  shipboard) 
— and  he  had  only  a  brief  colloquy  with  the  party. 
He  noticed,  however,  that  Mr.  Carling  had  on 
the  russet  shoes,  and  he  wondered  if  they  pinched 
him.  In  fact,  though  he  couldn't  have  said  ex 
actly  why,  he  rather  hoped  that  they  did.  He 
had  just  that  sympathy  for  the  nerves  of  two-and- 
fifty  which  is  to  be  expected  from  those  of  five- 
and-twenty — that  is,  very  little. 

When  he  went  in  to  dinner  the  Carlings  and 
Miss  Blake  had  been  at  table  some  minutes. 
There  had  been  the  usual  controversy  about  what 
Mr.  Carling  would  drink  with  his  dinner,  and  he 


3g  DAVID    HARUM. 

had  decided  upon  Apollinaris  water.  But  Miss 
Blake,  with  an  idea  of  her  own,  had  given  an 
order  for  champagne,  and  was  exhibiting  some 
consternation,  real  or  assumed,  at  the  fact  of 
having  a  whole  bottle  brought  in  with  the  cork 
extracted — a  customary  trick  at  sea. 

"  I  hope  you  will  help  me  out,"  she  said  to 
John  as  he  bowed  and  seated  himself.  : '  Some 
one  has  blundered,'  and  here  is  a  whole  bottle  of 
champagne  which  must  be  drunk  to  save  it.  Are 
you  prepared  to  help  turn  my,  or  somebody's, 
blunder  into  hospitality?" 

"  I  am  prepared  to  make  any  sacrifice,"  said 
John,  laughing,  "  in  the  sacred  cause." 

"  No  less  than  I  expected  of  you,"  she  said. 
"  Noblesse  oblige!  Please  fill  your  glass/' 

"  Thanks,"  said  John.  "  Permit  me,"  and  he 
filled  her  own  as  well. 

As  the  meal  proceeded  there  was  some  des 
ultory  talk  about  the  weather,  the  ship's  run, 
and  so  on;  but  Mrs.  Carling  was  almost  silent, 
and  her  husband  said  but  little  more.  Even 
Miss  Blake  seemed  to  have  something  on  her 
mind,  and  contributed  but  little  to  the  conversa 
tion.  Presently  Mr.  Carling  said,  "  Mary,  do  you 
think  a  mouthful  of  wine  would  hurt  me?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  was  the  reply.  ''  It  will  do 
you  good,"  reaching  over  for  his  glass  and  pour 
ing  the  wine. 

"  That's  enough,  that's  enough!  "  he  protested 
as  the  foam  came  up  to  the  rim  of  the  glass.  She 
proceeded  to  fill  it  up  to  the  brim  and  put  it  be 
side  him,  and  later,  as  she  had  opportunity,  kept  it 
replenished. 

As  the  dinner  concluded,  John  said  to  Mr. 
Carling:  "  Won't  you  go  up  to  the  smoking  room 


DAVID   HARUM.  39 

with  me  for  coffee?  I  like  a  bit  of  tobacco  with 
mine,  and  I  have  some  really  good  cigars  and 
some  cigarettes — if  you  prefer  them — that  I  can 
vouch  for." 

As  usual,  when  the  unexpected  was  presented 
to  his  mind,  Mr.  Carling  passed  the  perplexity 
on  to  his  women-folk.  At  this  time,  however, 
his  dinner  and  the  two  glasses  of  wine  which  Miss 
Blake  had  contrived  that  he  should  swallow  had 
braced  him  up,  and  John's  suggestion  was  so 
warmly  seconded  by  the  ladies  that,  after  some 
feeble  protests  and  misgivings,  he  yielded,  and 
John  carried  him  off. 

"  I  hope  it  won't  upset  Julius,"  said  Mrs. 
Carling  doubtfully. 

"  It  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort,"  her  sister 
replied.  "  He  will  get  through  the  evening  with 
out  worrying  himself  and  you  into  fits,  and,  if 
Mr.  Lenox  succeeds,  you  won't  see  anything  of 
him  fill  ten  o'clock  or  after,  and  not  then,  I 
hope.  Mind,  you're  to  be  sound  asleep  when  he 
comes  in,  and  let  him  get  to  bed  without  anv  talk 
at  all." 

"  Why  do  you  say  '  if  Mr.  Lenox  succeeds  '  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Carling. 

"  It  was  his  suggestion,"  Miss  Blake  an 
swered.  "  We  had  been  talking  about  Julius,  and 
he  finally  told  me  he  thought  he  would  be  the 
better  of  an  occasional  interval  of  masculine  soci 
ety,  and  I  quite  agreed  with  him.  You  know  how 
much  he  enjoyed  being  with  George  Nollis,  and 
how  much  like  himself  he  appeared." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Mrs.  Carling. 

"  And  you  know  that  just  as  soon  as  he  was 
alone  again  with  us  two  women  he  began  back 
ing  and  filling  as  badly  as  ever.  I  believe  Mr. 


4Q  DAVID   HARUM. 

Lenox  is  right,  and  that  Julius  is  just  petticoated 
to  death  between  us." 

"  Did  Mr.  Lenox  say  that?  "  asked  Mrs.  Car- 
ling  incredulously. 

"  No,"  said  her  sister,  laughing,  "  he  didn't 
make  use  of  precisely  that  figure,  but  that  was 
what  he  thought  plainly  enough." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Lenox? "  said 
Mrs.  Carling  irrelevantly.  "  Do  you  like  him? 
I  thought  that  he  looked  at  you  very  admiringly 
once  or  twice  to-night,"  she  added,  with  her  eyes 
on  her  sister's  face. 

"  Well,"  said  Mary,  with  a  petulant  toss  of  the 
head,  "  except  that  I've  had  about  an  hour's  talk 
with  him,  and  that  I  knew  him  when  we  were 
children — at  least  when  I  was  a  child — he  is  a 
perfect  stranger  to  me,  and  I  do  wish,"  she  added 
in  a  tone  of  annoyance,  "  that  you  would  give 
up  that  fad  of  yours,  that  every  man  who  comes 
along  is  going  to — to — be  a  nuisance." 

"  He  seems  very  pleasant,"  said  Mrs.  Carling, 
meekly  ignoring  her  sister's  reproach. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied  indifferently,  "  he's 
pleasant  enough.  Let  us  go  up  and  have  a  walk  on 
deck.  I  want  you  to  be  sound  asleep  when  Julius 


CHAPTER  V. 

JOHN  found  his  humane  experiment  pleasaater 
than  he  expected.  Mr.  Carling,  as  was  to  be  an 
ticipated,  demurred  a  little  at  the  coffee,  and  still 
more  at  the  cigarette;  but  having  his  appetite  for 
tobacco  aroused,  and  finding  that  no  alarming 
symptoms  ensued,  he  followed  it  with  a  cigar  and 
later  on  was  induced  to  go  the  length  of  "  Scotch 
and  soda,"  under  the  pleasant  effect  of  which — 
and  John's  sympathetic  efforts — he  was  for  the 
time  transformed,  the  younger  man  being  sur 
prised  to  find  him  a  man  of  interesting  experi 
ence,  considerable  reading,  and,  what  was  most 
surprising,  a  jolly  sense  of  humor  and  a  fund 
of  anecdotes  which  he  related  extremely  well. 
The  evening  wras  a  decided  success,  perhaps  the 
best  evidence  of  it  coming  at  the  last,  when,  at 
John's  suggestion  that  they  supplement  their 
modest  potations  with  a  "  night-cap,"  Mr.  Car- 
ling  cheerfully  assented  upon  the  condition  that 
they  should  "  have  it  with  him  ";  and  as  he  went 
along  the  deck  after  saying  "  Good  night,"  John 
was  positive  that  he  heard  a  whistled  tune. 

The  next  day  was  equally  fine,  but  during 
the  night  the  ship  had  run  into  the  swell  of  a 
storm,  and  in  the  morning  there  was  more  mo 
tion  than  the  weaker  ones  could  relish.  The  sea 
grew  quieter  as  the  day  advanced.  John  was 
4  4i 


42  DAVID   HARUM. 

early,  and  finished  his  breakfast  before  Miss  Blake 
came  in.  He  found  her  on  deck  about  ten 
o'clock.  She  gave  him  her  hand  as  they  said 
good  morning,  and  he  turned  and  walked  by  her 
side. 

"  How  is  your  brother-in-law  this  morning?  " 
he  inquired. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  he's  in  a  mixture 
of  feeling  very  well  and  feeling  that  he  ought  not 
to  feel  so,  but,  as  they  are  coming  up  pretty  soon, 
it  would  appear  that  the  misgivings  are  not  over 
whelming.  He  came  in  last  night,  and  retired 
without  saying  a  word.  My  sister  pretended  to 
be  asleep.  She  says  he  went  to  sleep  at  once,  and 
that  she  was  awake  at  intervals  and  knows  that  he 
slept  like  a  top.  He  won't  make  any  very  sweep 
ing  admissions,  however,  but  has  gone  so  far  as 
to  concede  that  he  had  a  very  pleasant  evening — 
which  is  going  a  long  way  for  him — and  to  say 
that  you  are  a  very  agreeable  young  man.  There ! 
I  didn't  intend  to  tell  you  that,  but  you  have 
been  so  good  that  perhaps  so  much  as  a  second 
hand  compliment  is  no  more  than  your  due." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John.  "  Mr. 
Carling  is  evidently  a  very  discriminating  person. 
Really  it  wasn't  good  of  me  at  all.  I  was  quite 
the  gainer,  for  he  entertained  me  more  than  I 
did  him.  We  had  a  very  pleasant  evening,  and  I 
hope  we  shall  have  more  of  them,  I  do,  indeed. 
I  got  an  entirely  different  impression  of  him," 
he  added. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  can  imagine  that  you  did. 
He  can  be  very  agreeable,  and  he  is  really  a  man 
of  a  great  deal  of  character  when  he  is  himself. 
He  has  been  goodness  itself  to  me,  and  has  man 
aged  my  affairs  for  years.  Even  to-day  his  judg- 


DAVID    HARUM.  43 

ment  in  business  matters  is  wonderfully  sound. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  him,"  she  continued,  "  I 
don't  know  but  I  should  have  been  a  pauper. 
My  father  left  a  large  estate,  but  he  died  very 
suddenly,  and  his  affairs  were  very  much  spread 
out  and  involved,  and  had  to  be  carried  along". 
Julius  put  himself  into  the  breach,  and  not  only 
saved  our  fortunes,  but  has  considerably  in 
creased  them.  Of  course,  Alice  is  his  wife,  but 
I  feel  very  grateful  to  him  on  my  own  account. 
I  did  not  altogether  appreciate  it  at  the  time,  but 
now  I  shudder  to  think  that  I  might  have  had 
either  to  '  fend  for  myself '  or  be  dependent." 

"  I  don't  think  that  dependence  would  have 
suited  your  book,"  was  John's  comment  as  he 
took  in  the  lines  of  her  clear-cut  face. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  and  I  thank  heaven  that 
I  have  not  had  to  endure  it.  I  am  not,"  she  added, 
"  so  impressed  with  what  money  procures  for 
people  as  what  it  saves  them  from." 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  I  think  your  distinction 
is  just.  To  possess  it  is  to  be  free  from  some  of 
the  most  disagreeable  apprehensions  certainly, 
but  I  confess,  whether  to  my  credit  or  my  shame 
I  don't  know,  that  I  have  never  thought  much 
about  it.  I  certainly  am  not  rich  positively,  and  I 
haven't  the  faintest  notion  whether  I  may  or  not 
be  prospectively.  I  have  always  had  as  much  as 
I  really  needed,  and  perhaps  more,  but  I  know 
absolutely  nothing  about  the  future." 

They  were  leaningover  the  rail  on  theport  side. 

"  I  should  think,"  she  said  after  a  moment, 
looking  at  him  thoughtfully,  "  that  it  was,  if  you 
will  not  consider  me  presuming,  a  matter  about 
which  you  might  have  some  justifiable  curiosity." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  he  assured  her,  stepping 


44  DAVID   HARUM. 

to  leeward  and  producing  a  cigar.  "  I  have  had 
some  such  stirrings  of  late.  And  please  don't 
think  me  an  incorrigible  idler.  I  spent  nearly  two 
years  in  a  down-town  office  and  earned — well, 
say  half  my  salary.  In  fact,  my  business  instincts 
were  so  strong  that  I  left  college  after  my  second 
year  for  that  purpose,  but  seeing  no  special 
chance  of  advancement  in  the  race  for  wealth, 
and  as  my  father  seemed  rather  to  welcome  the 
idea,  I  broke  off  and  went  over  to  Germany.  I 
haven't  been  quite  idle,  though  I  should  be  puz 
zled,  I  admit,  to  find  a  market  for  what  I  have 
to  offer  to  the  world.  Would  you  be  interested 
in  a  schedule  of  my  accomplishments?" 

"  Oh,''  she  said,  "  I  should  be  charmed,  but 
as  I  am  every  moment  expecting  the  advent  of 
my  family,  and  as  I  am  relied  upon  to  locate  them 
and  tuck  them  up,  I'm  afraid  I  shall  not  have 
time  to  hear  it." 

"  No,"  he  said,  laughing,  "  it's  quite  too  long." 

She  was  silent  for  some  moments,  gazing 
down  into  the  water,  apparently  debating  some 
thing  in  her  mind,  and  quite  unconscious  of 
John's  scrutiny.  Finally  she  turned  to  him  with 
a  little  laugh.  "  You  might  begin  on  your  list, 
and  if  I  am  called  away  you  can  finish  it  at  an 
other  time." 

"  I  hope  you  didn't  think  I  was  speaking  in 
earnest,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  I  did  not  think  you  real 
ly  intended  to  unpack  your  wares,  but,  speaking 
seriously — and  at  the  risk,  I  fear,  that  you  may 
think  me  rather  '  cheeky/  if  I  may  be'  allowed 
that  expression — I  know  a  good  many  men  in 
America,  and  I  think  that  without  an  exception 
they  are  professional  men  or  business  men,  or, 


DAVID   HARUM.  45 

being  neither — and  I  know  but  few  such — have 
a  competence  or  more;  and  I  was  wondering  just 
now  after  what  you  told  me  what  a  man  like  you 
would  or  could  do  if  he  were  thrown  upon  his 
own  resources.  I'm  afraid  that  is  rather  frank 
for  the  acquaintance  of  a  day,  isn't  it?  "  she  asked 
with  a  slight  flush,  "  but  it  really  is  not  so  per 
sonal  as  it  may  sound  to  you." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Blake,"  he  replied,  "  our  ac 
quaintance  goes  back  at  least  ten  years.  Please 
let  that  fact  count  for  something  in  your  mind. 
The  truth  is,  I  have  done  some  wondering  along 
that  same  line  myself  without  coming  to  any  sat 
isfactory  conclusion.  I  devoutly  hope  I  may 
not  be  so  thrown  absolutely,  for  the  truth  is  I 
haven't  a  marketable  commodity.  '  A  little  Latin, 
and  less  Greek,'  German  and  French  enough  to 
read  and  understand  and  talk — on  the  surface  of 
things — and  what  mathematics,  history,  et  cetera, 
I  have  not  forgotten.  I  know  the  piano  well 
enough  to  read  and  play  an  accompaniment  after 
a  fashion,  and  I  have  had  some  good  teaching 
for  the  voice,  and  some  experience  in  singing,  at 
home  and  abroad.  In  fact,  I  come  nearer  to  a 
market  there,  I  think,  than  in  any  other  direction 
perhaps.  I  have  given  some  time  to  fencing  in 
various  schools,  and  before  I  left  home  Billy 
Williams  would  sometimes  speak  encouragingly 
of  my  progress  with  the  gloves.  There!  That 
is  my  list,  and  not  a  dollar  in  it  from  beginning 
to  end,  I'm  afraid." 

"Who  is  Billy  Williams?"  she  asked. 

"  Billy,"  said  John,  "  is  the  very  mild-man 
nered  and  gentlemanlike  '  bouncer '  at  the  Alt- 
man  House,  an  ex-prize-fighter,  and  about  the 
most  accomplished  member  of  his  profession  of 


46  DAVID   HARUM. 

his  day  and  weight,  who  is  employed  to  keep 
order  and,  if  necessary,  to  thrust  out  the  riotous 
who  would  disturb  the  contemplations  of  the 
lovers  of  art  that  frequent  the  bar  of  that  hotel." 
It  was  to  be  seen  that  Miss  Blake  was  not  par 
ticularly  impressed  by  this  description  of  Billy 
and  his  functions,  upon  which  she  made  no  com 
ment. 

"  You  have  not  included  in  your  list,"  she  re 
marked,  "  what  you  acquire  1  in  the  down-town 
office  you  told  me  of." 

"  No,  upon  my  word  I  had  forgotten  that, 
and  it's  about  the  only  thing  of  use  in  the  whole 
category,"  he  answered.  "  If  I  were  put  to  it, 
and  could  find  a  place,  I  think  I  might  earn  fifty 
dollars  a  month  as  a  clerk  or  messenger,  or  some 
thing.  Hullo!  here  are  your  people." 

He  went  forward  with  his  companion  and 
greeted  Mrs.  Carling  and  her  husband,  who  re 
turned  his  "  Good  morning  "  with  a  feeble  smile, 
and  submitted  to  his  ministrations  in  the  matter 
of  chair  and  rugs  with  an  air  of  unresisting  in- 
validism,  which  was  almost  too  obvious,  he 
thought.  But  after  luncheon  John  managed  to 
induce  him  to  walk  for  a  while,  to  smoke  a  cigar 
ette,  and  finally  to  brave  the  perils  of  a  sherry  and 
bitters  before  dinner.  The  ladies  had  the  after 
noon  to  themselves.  John  had  no  chance  of  a 
further  visit  with  Mary  during  the  day,  a  loss 
only  partially  made  good  to  him  by  a  very  ap 
proving  smile  and  a  remark  which  she  made  to 
him  at  dinner,  that  he  must  be  a  lineal  descendant 
of  the  Samaritan.  Mr.  Carling  submitted  him 
self  to  him  for  the  evening.  Indeed,  it  came  about 
that  for  the  rest  of  the  voyage  he  had  rather  more 
of  the  company  of  that  gentleman,  who  fairly 


DAVID   HARUM.  47 

attached  himself  to  him,  than,  under  all  the  cir 
cumstances,  he  cared  for;  but  the  gratitude  of 
the  ladies  was  so  cordial  that  he  felt  paid  for  some 
sacrifices  of  his  inclinations.  And  there  was  an 
hour  or  so  every  morning — for  the  fine  weather 
lasted  through — which  he  spent  with  Mary  Blake, 
with  increasing  interest  and  pleasure,  and  he 
found  himself  inwardly  rejoicing  orer  a  mishap 
to  the  engine  which,  though  of  no  very  great 
magnitude,  would  retard  the  passage  by  a  couple 
of  days. 

There  can  hardly  be  any  conditions  more  fa 
vorable  to  the  forming  of  acquaintanceships, 
friendships,  and  even  more  tender  relations  than 
are  afforded  by  the  life  on  board  ship.  There  is 
opportunity,  propinquity,  and  the  community  of 
interest  which  breaks  down  the  barriers  of  ordi 
nary  reserve.  These  relations,  to  be  sure,  are  not 
always  of  the  most  lasting  character,  and  not  in 
frequently  are  practically  ended  before  the  parties 
thereto  are  out  of  the  custom-house  officer's 
hands  and  fade  into  nameless  oblivion,  unless  one 
happens  to  run  across  the  passenger  list  among 
one's  souvenirs.  But  there  are  exceptions.  If 
at  this  time  the  question  had  been  asked  our 
friend,  even  by  himself,  whether,  to  put  it  plainly, 
he  were  in  love  with  Mary  Blake,  he  would,  no 
doubt,  have  strenuously  denied  it;  but  it  is  cer 
tain  that  if  any  one  had  said  or  intimated  that 
any  feature  or  characteristic  of  hers  was  faulty 
or  susceptible  of  any  change  for  the  better,  he 
would  have  secretly  disliked  that  person,  and 
entertained  the  meanest  opinion  of  that  person's 
mental  and  moral  attributes.  He  would  have 
wished  the  voyage  prolonged  indefinitely,  or,  at 
any  rate,  as  long  as  the  provisions  held  out. 


4g  DAVID   HARUM. 

It  has  been  remarked  by  some  one  that  all 
mundane  things  come  to  an  end  sooner  or  later, 
and,  so  far  as  my  experience  goes,  it  bears  out 
that  statement.  The  engines  were  successfully 
repaired,  and  the  ship  eventually  came  to  anchor 
outside  the  harbor  about  eleven  o'clock  on  the 
night  of  the  last  day.  Mary  and  John  were 
standing  together  at  the  forward  rail.  There 
had  been  but  little  talk  between  them,  and  only 
of  a  desultory  and  impersonal  character.  As  the 
anchor  chain  rattled  in  the  hawse-hole,  John  said, 
"  Well,  that  ends  it." 

"What  ends  what?"  she  asked. 

"  'J  'he  voyage,  and  the  holiday,  and  the  epi 
sode,  and  lots  of  things,"  he  replied.  u  We  have 
come  to  anchor." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  the  voyage  is  over,  that  is 
true;  but,  for  my  part,  if  the  last  six  months  can 
be  called  a  holiday,  its  end  is  welcome,  and  I 
should  think  you  might  be  glad  that  your  holi 
day  is  over,  too.  But  I  don't  quite  understand 
what  you  mean  by  '  the  episode  and  lots  of 
things/  " 

There  was  an  undertone  in  her  utterance 
which  her  companion  did  not  quite  comprehend, 
though  it  was  obvious  to  him. 

"  The  episode  of — of — our  friendship,  if  I  may 
call  it  so,"  he  replied. 

"  I  call  it  so,"  she  said  decisively.  "  You 
have  certainly  been  a  friend  to  all  of  us.  This 
episode  is  over  to  be  sure,  but  is  there  any  more 
than  that?" 

"  Somebody  says  that  '  friendship  is  largely  a 
matter  of  streets/  "  said  John  gloomily.  "  To 
morrow  you  will  go  your  way  and  I  shall  go 
mine." 


DAVID   HARUM.  49 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  rather  sharply,  "that  is 
true   enough;   but  if   that   cynical    quotation    of 
yours  has  anything  in  it,  it's  equally  true,  isn't 
^  it,  that  friendship  is  a  matter  of  cabs,  and  street 
X'cars,  and  the  elevated  road?     Of  course,  we  can 
/  hardly  be  expected  to  look  you  up,  but  Sixty- 
ninth  Street  isn't  exactly  in  California,  and  the 
-whole  question  lies  with  yourself.     I  don't  know 
if  you  care  to  be  told  so,  but  Julius  and  my  sister 
like  you  very  much,  and  will  welcome  you  heart 
ily  always." 

"  Thanks,  very  much!"  said  John,  staring- 
straight  out  in  front  of  him,  and  forming  a  de 
termination  that  Sixty-ninth  Street  should  see 
"but  precious  little  of  him.  She  gave  a  side  glance 
at  him  as  he  did  not  speak  further.  There  was 
light  enough  to  see  the  expression  of  his  mouth, 
and  she  read  his  thought  almost  in  words.  She 
believed  that  she  had  detected  a  suggestion  of 
sentimentality  on  his  part  which  she  resolved  to 
keep  strictly  in  abeyance ;  but  before  she  realized 
it  she  had  taken  an  attitude  of  coolness  and  a  tone 
which  was  almost  sarcastic;  and  then  she  per 
ceived  that,  so  far  as  results  were  apparent,  she 
had  carried  matters  somewhat  further  than  she 
intended.  Her  heart  smote  her  a  little,  too,  to 
think  that  he  was  hurt.  She  really  liked  him 
very  much,  and  contritely  recalled  how  kind  and 
thoughtful  and  unselfish  he  had  been,  and  how 
helpful,  and  she  knew  that  it  had  been  almost 
wholly  for  her.  Yes,  she  was  willing — and  glad 
— to  think  so.  But  while  she  wished  that  she  had 
taken  a  different  line  at  the  outset,  she  hated  des 
perately  to  make  any  concession,  and  the  seconds 
of  their  silence  grew  into  minutes.  She  stole 
another  glance  at  his  face.  It  was  plain  that 

5 


50  DAVID   HARUM. 

negotiations  for  harmony  would  have  to  begin 
with  her.    Finally  she  said  in  a  quiet  voice: 

"  '  Thanks,  very  much/  is  an  entirely  polite 
expression,  but  it  isn't  very  responsive." 

"  I  thought  it  met  your  cordiality  quite  half 
way,"  was  the  rejoinder.  "  Of  course,  I  am  glad 
to  be  assured  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carling's  regard, 
and  that  they  would  be  glad  to  see  me,  but  I  think 
I  might  have  been  justified  in  hoping  that  you 
would  go  a  little  further,  don't  you  think?  " 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  asked  the  question, 
but  she  did  not  turn  her  head.  Presently  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  and  slowly,  as  if  weighing 
her  words: 

"  Will  it  be  enough  if  I  say  that  I  shall  be 
very  sorry  if  you  do  not  come?  "  He  put  his  left 
hand  upon,  her  right,  which  was  resting  on  the 
rail,  and  for  two  seconds  she  let  it  stay. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "  thanks— very— much!  " 

"  I  must  go  now,"  she  said,  turning  toward 
him,  and  for  a  moment  she  looked  searchingly 
in  his  face.  "  Good  night,"  she  said,  giving  him 
her  hand,  and  John  looked  after  her  as  she  walked 
down  the  deck,  and  he  knew  how  it  was  with  him. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

JOHN  saw  Miss  Blake  the  next  morning  in  the 
saloon  among  the  passengers  in  line  for  the  cus 
toms  official.  It  was  an  easy  conjecture  that 
Mr.  Carling's  nerves  were  not  up  to  committing 
himself  to  a  "  declaration  "  of  any  sort,  and  that 
Miss  Blake  was  undertaking  the  duty  for  the 
party.  He  did  not  see  her  again  until  he  had  had 
his  luggage  passed  and  turned  it  over  to  an  ex 
pressman.  As  he  was  on  his  way  to  leave  the 
wharf  he  came  across  the  group,  and  stopped  to 
greet  them  and  ask  if  he  could  be  of  service,  and 
was  told  that  their  houseman  had  everything  in 
charge,  and  that  they  were  just  going  to  their 
carriage,  which  was  waiting.  "  And,"  said  Miss 
Blake,  "  if  you  are  going  up  town,  we  can  offer 
you  a  seat." 

"  Sha'n't  I  discommode  you?  "  he  asked.  "  If 
you  are  sure  I  shall  not,  I  shall  be  glad  to  be 
taken  as  far  as  Madison  Avenue  and  Thirty-third 
Street,  for  I  suppose  that  will  be  your  route." 

"  Quite  sure,"  she  replied,  seconded  by  the 
Carlings,  and  so  it  happened  that  John  went  di 
rectly  home  instead  of  going  first  to  his  father's 
office.  The  weather  was  a  chilly  drizzle,  and  he 
was  glad  to  be  spared  the  discomfort  of  going 
about  in  it  with  hand-bag,  overcoat,  and  umbrel 
la;  and  he  felt  a  certain  justification  in  conclud- 


52  DAVID   HARUM. 

ing  that,  after  two  years,  a  few  hours  more  or  less 
under  the  circumstances  would  make  but  little 
difference.  And  then,  toc>,  the  prospect  of  half 
or  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  Miss  Blake's  com 
pany,  the  Carlings  notwithstanding,  was  a 
temptation  to  be  welcomed.  But  if  he  had  hoped 
or  expected,  as  perhaps  would  have  been  not  un 
natural,  to  discover  in  that  young  woman's  air 
any  hint  or  trace  of  the  feeling  she  had  exhibited, 
or,  perhaps  it  should  be  said,  to  a  degree  per 
mitted  to  show  itself,  disappointment  was  his  por 
tion.  Her  manner  was  as  much  in  contrast  with 
that  of  the  last  days  of  their  voyage  together  as  was 
the  handsome  street  gown  and  hat  in  which  she 
was  now  attired  to  the  dress  and  headgear  of  her 
steamer  costume  ;  and  it  almost  seemed  to  him  as 
if  the  contrasts  bore  some  relation  to  each  other. 
After  the  question  of  the  carriage  windows — 
whether  they  should  be  up  or  down,  either  or 
both,  and  how  much — had  been  settled,  and,  as 
usual  in  such  dilemmas,  by  Miss  Blake,  the  drive 
up  town  was  comparatively  a  silent  one.  John's 
mind  was  occupied  with  sundry  reflections  and 
speculations,  of  many  of  which  his  companion 
was  the  subject,  and  to  some  extent  in  noting  the 
changes  in  the  streets  and  buildings  which  an 
absence  of  two  years  made  noticeable  to  him. 

Mary  looked  steadily  out  of  window,  lost  in 
her  own  thoughts  save  for  an  occasional  brief 
response  to  some  casual  comment  or  remark  of 
John's.  Mr.  Carling  had  muffled  himself  past  all 
talking,  and  his  wife  preserved  the  silence  which 
was  characteristic  of  her  when  unurged. 

John  was  set  down  at  Thirty-third  Street,  and, 
as  he  made  his  adieus,  Mrs.  Carling  said,  "  Do 
come  and  see  us  as  soon  as  you  can,  Mr.  Lenox  "j 


DAVID   HARUM.  53 

but  Miss  Blake  simply  said  "  Good-by  "  as  she 
gave  him  her  hand  for  an  instant,  and  he  went  on 
to  his  father's  house. 

He  let  Jiimself  in  with  the  latch-key  which  he 
had  carried  through  all  his  absence,  but  was  at 
once  encountered  by  Jeffrey,  who,  with  his  wife, 
had  for  years  constituted  the  domestic  staff  of  the 
Lenox  household. 

"  Well,  Jeff,"  said  John,  as  he  shook  hands 
heartily  with  the  old  servant,  "  how  are  you?  and 
how  is  Ann?  You  don't  look  a  day  older,  and 
the  climate  seems  to  agree  with  you,  eh?" 

"  You're  welcome  home,  Mr.  John,"  replied 
Jeffrey,  "  and  thank  you,  sir.  Me  and  Ann  is  very 
well,  sir.  It's  a  pleasure  to  see  you  again  and 
home.  It  is,  indeed." 

"  Thank  you,  Jeff,"  said  John.  "  It's  rather 
nice  to  be  back.  Is  my  room  ready?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Jeffrey,  "  I  think  it's  all  right, 
though  we  thought  that  maybe  it  'd  be  later  in 
the  day  when  you  got  here,  sir.  We  thought 
maybe  you'd  go  to  Mr.  Lenox's  office  first." 

"  I  did  intend  to,"  said  John,  mounting  the 
stairs,  followed  by  Jeffrey  with  his  bag,  "  but 
I  had  a  chance  to  drive  up  with  some  friends, 
and  the  day  is  so  beastly  that  I  took  advantage 
of  it.  How  is  my  father?  "  he  asked  after  entering 
the  chamber,  which  struck  him  as  being  so 
strangely  familiar  and  so  familiarly  strange. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Jeffrey,  "he's  much  about 
the  same  most  ways,  and  then  again  he's  different, 
too.  Seeing  him  every  day,  perhaps  I  wouldn't 
notice  so  much;  but  if  I  was  to  say  that  he's 
kind  of  quieter,  perhaps  that'd  be  what  I  mean, 
sir." 

"  Well,"  said  John,  smiling,  "  my  father  was 


54 


DAVID   HARUM. 


about  the  quietest  person  I  ever  knew,  and  if  he's 
grown  more  so — what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "  I  notice  at 
table,  sir,  for  one  thing.  We've  been  alone  here 
off  and  on  a  good  bit,  sir,  an'  he  used  always  to 
have  a  pleasant  word  or  two  to  say  to  me,  an' 
may  be  to  ask  me  questions  an'  that,  sir ;  but  for 
a  long  time  lately  he  hardly  seems  to  notice  me. 
Of  course,  there  ain't  any  need  of  his  saying  any 
thing,  because  I  know  all  he  wants,  seeing  I've 
waited  on  him  so  long,  but  it's  different  in  a  way, 
sir." 

"  Does  he  go  out  in  the  evening  to  his  club  ?  " 
asked  John. 

"  Very  rarely,  sir,"  said  Jeffrey.  "  He  mostly 
goes  to  his  room  after  dinner,  an'  often  I  hear 
him  walking  up  an'  down,  up  an'  down,  an',  sir," 
he  added,  "  you  know  he  often  used  to  have  some 
of  his  friends  to  dine  with  him,  an'  that  ain't 
happened  in,  I  should  guess,  for  a  year." 

"  Have  things  gone  wrong  with  him  in  any 
way  ?  "  said  John,  a  sudden  anxiety  overcoming 
some  reluctance  to  question  a  servant  on  such  a 
subject. 

"  You  mean  about  business,  and  such  like?  " 
replied  Jeffrey.  "  No,  sir,  not  so  far  as  I  know. 
You  know,  Mr.  John,  sir,  that  I  pay  all  the  house 
accounts,  an'  there  hasn't  never  been  no — no 
shortness,  as  I  might  say,  but  we're  living  a  bit 
simpler  than  we  used  to — in  the  matter  of  wine 
an'  such  like — an',  as  I  told  you,  we  don't  have 
comp'ny  no  more." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  John,  with  some  relief. 

"  Well,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  "  perhaps  it's  be 
cause  Mr.  Lenox  is  getting  older  an'  don't  care 
so  much  about  such  things,  but  I  have  noticed 


DAVID   HARUM.  55 

that  he  hasn't  had  anything  new  from  the  tailor 
in  a  long  time,  an'  really,  sir,  though  perhaps  I 
oughtn't  to  say  it,  his  things  is  getting  a  bit 
shabby,  sir,  an'  he  used  to  be  always  so  partic'- 
lar." 

John  got  up  and  walked  over  to  the  window 
which  looked  out  at  the  rear  of  the  house.  The 
words  of  the  old  servant  disquieted  him,  notwith 
standing  that  there  was  nothing  so  far  that  could 
not  be  accounted  for  without  alarm.  Jeffrey  wait 
ed  for  a  moment  and  then  asked: 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Mr. 
John?  Will  you  be  having  luncheon  here,  sir?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Jeff,"  said  John;  "  nothing 
more  now,  and  I  will  lunch  here.  I'll  come  down 
and  see  Ann  presently." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Jeffrey,  and  withdrew. 

The  view  from  the  back  windows  of  most  city 
houses  is  not  calculated  to  arouse  enthusiasm  at 
the  best  of  times,  and  the  day  was  singularly 
dispiriting:  a  sky  of  lead  and  a  drizzling  rain, 
which  emphasized  the  squalor  of  the  back  yards 
ki  view.  It  was  all  very  depressing.  Jeffrey's 
talk,  though  inconclusive,  had  stirred  in  John's 
mind  an  uneasiness  which  was  near  to  apprehen 
sion.  He  turned  and  walked  about  the  familiar 
room,  recognizing  the  well-known  furniture,  his 
mother's  picture  over  the  mantel,  the  book 
shelves  filled  with  his  boyhood's  accumulations, 
the  well-remembered  pattern  of  the  carpet,  and 
the  wall-paper — nothing  was  changed.  It  was 
all  as  he  had  left  it  two  years  ago,  and  for  the 
time  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  merely  dreamed  the 
life  and  experiences  of  those  years.  Indeed,  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  he  recalled  any  of  them 
for  the  moment.  And  then  suddenly  there  came 


0  DAVID   HARUM. 

into  his  mind  the  thought  that  he  was  at  the  be 
ginning  of  a  new  epoch — that  on  this  day  his 
boyhood  ended,  for  up  to  then  he  had  been  but 
a  boy.  The  thought  was  very  vivid.  It  had 
come,  the  time  when  he  must  take  upon  himself 
the  responsibilities  of  his  own  life,  and  make  it 
for  himself;  the  time  which  he  had  looked  for- 
xvard  to  as  to  come  some  day,  but  not  hitherto 
at  any  particular  moment,  and  so  not  to  be  very 
seriously  considered. 

It  has  been  said  that  life  had  always  been 
made  easy  for  him,  and  that  he  had  accepted  the 
situation  without  protest.  To  easy-going  na 
tures  the  thought  of  any  radical  change  in  the 
current  of  affairs  is  usually  unwelcome,  but  he  was 
too  young  to  find  it  really  repugnant;  and  then, 
too,  as  he  walked  about  the  room  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  it  was  further  revealed  to  him  that 
he  had  recently  found  a  motive  and  impulse  such 
as  he  had  never  had  before.  He  recalled  the  talk 
that  he  had  had  with  the  companion  of  his  voy 
age.  He  thought  of  her  as  one  who  could  be 
tender  to  misfortune  and  charitable  to  incapacity, 
but  who  would  have  nothing  but  scorn  for  shift- 
kssness  and  malingering;  and  he  realized  that 
he  had  never  cared  for  anything  so  much  as  for 
the  good  opinion  of  that  young  woman.  No, 
there  should  be  for  him  no  more  sauntering  in 
the  vales  and  groves,  no  more  of  loitering  or 
dallying.  He  would  take  his  place  in  the  work 
ing  world,  and  perhaps — some  day 

The  thought  came  to  him  with  the  impact  of  a 
blow :  What  could  he  do  ?  What  work  was  there 
for  him?  How  could  he  pull  his  weight  in  the 
boat?  All  his  life  he  had  depended  upon  some 
one  else,  with  easy-going  thoughtlessness.  Hard- 


DAVID   HARUM.  57 

ly  had  it  ever  really  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
have  to  make  a  career  for  himself.  Of  business 
he  had  thought  as  something  which  he  should 
undertake  some  time,  but  it  was  always  a  busi 
ness  ready  made  to  his  hand,  with  plenty  of  capi 
tal  not  of  his  own  acquiring — something  for  oc 
cupation,  not  of  necessity.  It  came  home  to  him 
that  his  father  was  his  only  resource,  and  that 
of  his  father's  affairs  he  knew  next  to  nothing. 

In  addition  to  his  affection  for  him,  he  had 
always  had  an  unquestioning  confidence  in  his 
father.  It  was  his  earliest  recollection,  and  he 
still  retained  it  to  an  almost  childish  extent. 
There  had  always  been  plenty.  His  own  allow 
ance,  from  time  to  time  increased,  though  never 
extravagant,  had  always  been  ample ;  and  on  the 
one  occasion  when  he  had  grievously  exceeded  it 
the  excess  had  been  paid  with  no  more  protest 
than  a  gentle  "  I  think  you  ought  not  to  have 
done  this."  The  two  had  lived  together  when 
John  was  at  home  without  ostentation  or  any 
appearance  of  style,  but  with  every  essential  of 
luxury.  The  house  and  its  furnishings  were  old- 
fashioned,  but  everything  was  of  the  best,  and 
when  three  or  four  of  the  elder  man's  friends 
would  come  to  dine,  as  happened  occasionally, 
the  contents  of  the  cellar  made  them  look  at  one 
another  over  their  glasses.  Mr.  Lenox  was  very 
reticent  in  all  matters  relating  to  himself,  and  in 
his  talks  with  his  son,  which  were  mostly  at  the 
table,  rarely  spoke  of  business  matters  in  gen 
eral,  and  almost  never  of  his  own.  He  had  read 
well,  and  was  fond  of  talking  of  his  reading  when 
he  felt  in  the  vein  of  talking,  which  was  not  al 
ways  ;  but  John  had  invariably  found  him  ready 
with  comment  and  sympathy  upon  the  topics  in 


jS  DAVID   HARUM. 

which  he  himself  had  interest,  and  there  was  a 
strong  if  undemonstrative  affection  between  the 
father  and  son. 

It  was  not  strange,  perhaps,  all  things  con 
sidered,  that  John  had  come  even  to  nearly  six- 
and-twenty  with  no  more  settled  intentions;  that 
his  boyhood  should  have  been  so  long.  He  was 
not  at  all  of  a  reckless  disposition,  and,  notwith 
standing  the  desultory  way  in  which  he  had  spent 
time,  he  had  strong  mental  and  moral  fiber,  and 
was  capable  of  feeling  deeply  and  enduringly. 
He  had  been  desultory,  but  never  before  had  he 
had  much  reason  or  warning  against  it.  But  now, 
he  reflected,  a  time  had  come.  Work  he  must, 
if  only  for  work's  sake,  and  work  he  would;  and 
there  was  a  touch  of  self-reproach  in  the  thought 
of  his  father's  increasing  years  and  of  his  lonely 
life.  He  might  have  been  a  help  and  a  compan 
ion  during  those  two  years  of  his  not  very  fruit 
ful  European  sojourn,  and  he  would  lose  no  time 
in  finding  out  what  there  was  for  him  to  do,  and 
in  setting  about  it. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  day  seemed  very  long.  He  ate  his 
luncheon,  having  first  paid  a  visit  to  Ann,  who 
gave  him  an  effusive  welcome.  Jeffrey  waited, 
and  during  the  meal  they  had  some  further  talk, 
and  among  other  things  John  said  to  him,  "  Does 
my  father  dress  for  dinner  nowadays?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  don't  know  when 
I've  seen  your  father  in  his  evenin'  clothes,  sir. 
Not  for  a  long  time,  and  then  maybe  two  or  three 
times  the  past  year  when  he  was  going  out  to 
dinner,  but  not  here,  sir.  Maybe  it'll  be  different 
now  you're  back  again,  sir." 

After  luncheon  John's  luggage  arrived,  and 
he  superintended  the  unpacking,  but  that  em 
ployment  was  comparatively  brief.  The  day 
dragged  with  him.  Truly  his  home-coming  was 
rather  a  dreary  affair.  How  different  had  been 
yesterday,  and  the  day  before,  and  all  those  days 
before  when  he  had  so  enjoyed  the  ship  life,  and 
most  of  all  the  daily  hour  or  more  of  the  com 
panionship  which  had  grown  to  be  of  such  sur^ 
passing  interest  to  him,  and  now  seemed  so  ut-» 
terly  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Of  course,  he  should  see  her  again.  (He  put 
aside  a  wonder  if  it  would  be  within  the  proprie 
ties  on  that  evening  or,  at  latest,  the  next.)  But, 
in  any  case,  "  the  episode,"  as  he  had  said  to  her, 

59 


6o  DAVID    HARUM. 

was  done,  and  it  had  been  very  pleasant — oh,  yes, 
very  dear  to  him.  He  wondered  if  she  was  find 
ing  the  day  as  interminable  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
and  if  the  interval  before  they  saw  each  other 
again  would  seem  as  long  as  his  impatience  would 
make  it  for  him.  Finally,  the  restless  dullness 
became  intolerable.  He  sallied  forth  into  the 
weather  and  went  to  his  club,  having  been  on 
non-resident  footing  during  his  absence,  and, 
finding  some  men  whom  he  knew,  spent  there  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon. 

His  father  was  at  home  and  in  his  room  when 
John  got  back. 

"  Well,  father,"  he  said,  "  the  prodigal  has  re 
turned." 

"  He  is  very  welcome,"  was  the  reply,  as  the 
elder  man  took  both  his  son's  hands  and  looked 
at  him  affectionately.  "  You  seem  very  well." 

"  Yes,"  said  John;  "  and  how  are  you,  sir?  " 

"  About  as  usual,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Lenox. 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  in 
silence.  John  thought  that  his  father  seemed 
thinner  than  formerly,  and  he  had  instantly  ob 
served  that  a  white  beard  covered  the  always 
hitherto  smooth-shaven  chin,  but  he  made  no 
comment. 

"  The  old  place  appears  very  familiar,"  he  re 
marked.  "  Nothing  is  changed  or  even  moved, 
as  I  can  see,  and  Ann  and  Jeff  are  just  the  same 
old  sixpences  as  ever." 

"  Yes,"  said  his  father,  "  two  years  make  less 
difference  with  old  people  and  their  old  habits 
than  with  young  ones.  You  will  have  changed 
more  than  we  have,  I  fancy." 

"  Do  we  dress  for  dinner?"  asked  John,  after 
some  little  more  unimportant  talk. 


DAVID   HARUM.  6! 

"  Yes,"  said  b's  father,  "  in  honor  of  the  oc 
casion,  if  you  like.  I  haven't  done  it  lately,"  he 
added,  a  little  wearily. 

"  I  haven't  had  such  a  glass  of  wine  since  I 
left  home,"  John  remarked  as  they  sat  together 
after  dinner. 

"  No,"  said  his  father,  looking  thoughtfully  at 
his  glass,  "  it's  the  old  '  Mouton/  and  pretty  near 
ly  the  last  of  it ;  it's  very  old  and  wants  drinking,*' 
he  observed  as  he  held  his  glass  up  to  get  the 
color.  "  It  has  gone  off  a  bit  even  in  two  years." 

"  All  right,"  said  John  cheerfully,  "  we'll  drink 
it  to  save  it,  if  needs  be."  The  elder  man  smiled 
and  filled  both  glasses. 

There  had  been  more  or  less  talk  during  the 
meal,  but  nothing  of  special  moment.  John  sat 
back  in  his  chair,  absently  twirling  the  stem  of 
his  glass  between  thumb  and  fingers.  Presently 
he  said,  looking  straight  before  him  at  the  table: 
"  I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal  of  late — more 
than  ever  before,  positively,  in  fact — that  what 
ever  my  prospects  may  be"  (he  did  not  see  the 
momentary  contraction  of  his  father's  brow)  "  I 
ought  to  begin  some  sort  of  a  career  in  earnest. 
I'm  afraid,"  he  continued,  "  that  I  have  been 
rather  unmindful,  and  that  I  might  have  been  of 
some  use  to  you  as  well  as  myself  if  I  had  stayed 
at  home  instead  of  spending  the  last  two  years  in 
Europe." 

"  I  trust,"  said  his  father,  "  that  they  have  not 
been  entirely  without  profit." 

"  No,"  said  John,  "  perhaps  not  wholly,  but 
their  cash  value  would  not  be  large,  I'm  afraid." 

"  All  value  is  not  to  be  measured  in  dollars 
and  cents,"  remarked  Mr.  Lenox.  "  If  I  could 


52  DAVID   HARUM. 

have  acquired  as  much  German  and  French  as  I 
presume  you  have,  to  say  nothing  of  other  things, 
I  should  look  back  upon  the  time  as  well  spent 
at  almost  any  cost.  At  your  age  a  year  or  two 
more  or  less — you  don't  realize  it  now,  but  you 
will  if  you  come  to  my  age — doesn't  count  for 
so  very  much,  and  you  are  not  too  old,"  he 
smiled,  "  to  begin  at  a  beginning." 

"  I  want  to  begin,"  said  John. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  father,  "  I  want  to  have  you, 
and  I  have  had  the  matter  a  good  deal  in  my 
mind.  Have  you  any  idea  as  to  what  you  wish  to 
do?" 

"  I  thought,"  said  John,  "  that  the  most  ob 
vious  thing  would  be  to  go  into  your  office." 
Mr.  Lenox  reached  over  for  the  cigar-lamp.  His 
cigar  had  gone  out,  and  his  hand  shook  as  he 
applied  the  flame  to  it.  He  did  not  reply  for  a 
moment. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said  at  last.  "  It  would 
seem  the  obvious  thing  to  do,  as  you  say,  but," 
he  clicked  his  teeth  together  doubtfully,  "  I  don't 
see  how  it  can  be  managed  at  present,  and  I  don't 
think  it  is  what  I  should  desire  for  you  in  any 
case.  The  fact  is,"  he  went  on,  "  my  business  has 
always  been  a  sort  of  specialty,  and,  though  it  is 
still  worth  doing  perhaps,  it  is  not  what  it  used 
to  be.  Conditions  and  methods  have  changed — 
ami,"  he  added,  "  I  am  too  old  to  change  with 
them." 

"  I  am  not,"  said  John. 

"  In  fact,"  resumed  his  father,  ignoring  John's 
assertion,  "  as  things  are  going  now,  I  couldn't 
make  a  place  for  you  in  my  office  unless  I  dis 
placed  Melig  and  made  you  my  manager,  and  for 
many  reasons  I  couldn't  do  that.  I  am  too  de- 


DAVID   HARUM.  63 

pendent  on  Melig.  Of  course,  if  you  came  with 
me  it  would  be  as  a  partner,  but " 

"  No,"  said  John,  "  I  should  be  a  poor 
substitute  for  old  Melig  for  a  good  while,  I 
fancy." 

"  My  idea  would  be,"  said  Mr.  Lenox,  "  that 
you  should  undertake  a  profession — say  the  law. 
It  is  a  fact  that  the  great  majority  of  men  fail  in 
business,  and  then  most  of  them,  for  lack  of  train 
ing  or  special  aptitude,  fall  into  the  ranks  of  clerks 
and  subordinates.  On  the  other  hand,  a  man 
who  has  a  profession — law,  medicine,  what  not — 
even  if  he  does  not  attain  high  rank,  has  some 
thing  on  which  he  can  generally  get  along,  at 
least  after  a  fashion,  and  he  has  the  standing. 
That  is  my  view  of  the  matter,  and  though  I  con 
fess  I  often  wonder  at  it  in  individual  cases,  it  is 
my  advice  to  you." 

"  It  would  take  three  or  four  years  to  put  me 
where  I  could  earn  anything  to  speak  of,"  said 
John,  "  even  providing  that  I  could  get  any  busi 
ness  at  the  end  of  the  time." 

"  Yes,"  said  his  father,  "  but  the  time  of  itself 
isn't  of  so  much  consequence.  You  would  be  liv 
ing  at  home,  and  would  have  your  allowance — 
perhaps,"  he  suggested,  "  somewhat  diminished, 
seeing  that  you  would  be  here " 

"  I  can  get  on  with  half  of  it,"  said  John  con 
fidently. 

"We  will  settle  that  matter  afterward,"  said 
Mr.  Lenox. 

They  sat  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  John 
staring  thoughtfully  at  the  table,  unconscious  of 
the  occasional  scrutiny  of  his  father's  glance.  At 
last  he  said,  "  Well,  sir,  I  will  do  anything  that 
you  advise." 


64 


DAVID    HARUM. 


"  Have  you  anything  to  urge  against  it? " 
asked  Mr.  Lenox. 

"  Not  exactly  on  my  own  account,"  replied 
John,  "  though  I  admit  that  the  three  years  or 
more  seems  a  long  time  to  me,  but  I  have  been 
drawing  on  you  exclusively  all  my  life,  except 
for  the  little  money  I  earned  in  Rush  &  Com 
pany's  office,  and " 

"  You  have  done  so,  my  dear  boy,"  said  his 
father  gently,  "  with  my  acquiescence.  I  may 
have  been  wrong,  but  that  is  a  fact.  If  in  my 
judgment  the  arrangement  may  be  continued  for 
a  while  longer,  and  in  the  mean  time  you  are  mak 
ing  progress  toward  a  definite  end,  I  think  you 
need  have  no  misgivings.  It  gratifies  me  to  have 
you  feel  as  you  do,  though  it  is  no  more  than  I 
should  have  expected  of  you,  for  you  have  never 
caused  me  any  serious  anxiety  or  disappointment, 
my  son." 

Often  in  the  after  time  did  John  thank  God 
for  that  assurance. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said,  putting  down  his 
hand,  palm  upward,  on  the  table,  and  his  eyes 
filled  as  the  elder  man  laid  his  hand  in  his,  and 
they  gave  each  other  a  lingering  pressure. 

Mr.  Lenox  divided  the  last  of  the  wine  in  the 
bottle  between  the  two  glasses,  and  they  drank 
it  in  silence,  as  if  in  pledge. 

"  I  will  go  in  to  see  Carey  &  Carey  in  the 
morning,  and  if  they  are  agreeable  you  can  see 
them  afterward,"  said  Mr.  Lenox.  "  They  are 
mot  one  of  the  great  firms,  but  they  have  a  large 
and  good  practice,  and  they  are  friends  of  mine. 
Shall  I  do  so?  "  he  asked,  looking  at  his  son. 

"  If  you  will  be  so  kind,"  John  replied,  return 
ing  his  look.  And  so  the  matter  was  concluded. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THIS  history  will  not  concern  itself  to  any 
extent  with  our  friend's  career  as  a  law  clerk, 
though,  as  he  promised  himself,  he  took  it  seri 
ously  and  laboriously  while  it  lasted,  notwith 
standing  that,  after  two  years  of  being  his  own 
master,  and  the  rather  desultory  and  altogether 
congenial  life  he  had  led,  he  found  it  at  first  even 
more  irksome  than  he  had  fancied.  The  novice 
penetrates  but  slowly  the  mysteries  of  the  law, 
and,  unless  he  be  of  unusual  aptitude  and  imag 
ination,  the  interesting  and  remunerative  part 
seems  for  a  long  time  very  far  off.  But  John 
stuck  manfully  to  the  reading,  and  was  diligent 
in  all  that  was  put  upon  him  to  do;  and  after 
a  while  the  days  spent  in  the  office  and  in  the 
work  appointed  to  him  began  to  pass  more 
quickly. 

He  restrained  his  impulse  to  call  at  Sixty- 
ninth  Street  until  what  seemed  to  him  a  fitting 
interval  had  elapsed;  one  which  was  longer  than 
it  would  otherwise  have  been,  from  an  instinct  of 
shyness  not  habitual  to  him,  and  a  distrustful  ap 
prehension  that  perhaps  his  advent  was  not  of  so 
much  moment  to  the  people  there  as  to  himself. 
But  their  greeting  was  so  cordial  on  every  hand 
that  Mrs.  Carling's  remark  that  they  had  been 
almost  afraid  he  had  forgotten  them  embarrassed 

65 


66  DAVID   HARUM. 

while  it  pleased  him,  and  his  explanations  were 
somewhat  lame.  Miss  Blake,  as  usual,  came  to 
the  rescue,  though  John's  disconcert  was  not 
lessened  by  the  suspicion  that  she  saw  through 
his  inventions.  He  had  conceived  a  great  opin 
ion  of  that  young  person's  penetration. 

His  talk  for  a  while  was  mostly  with  Mr.  Car- 
ling,  who  was  in  a  pleasant  mood,  being,  like 
most  nervous  people,  at  his  best  in  the  evening. 
Mary  made  an  occasional  contributory  remark, 
and  Mrs.  Carling,  as  was  her  wont,  was  silent  ex 
cept  when  appealed  to.  Finally,  Mr.  Carling  rose 
and,  putting  out  his  hand,  said:  "  I  think  I  will 
excuse  myself,  if  you  will  permit  me.  I  have  had 
to  be  down  town  to-day,  and  am  rather  tired." 
Mrs.  Carling  followed  him,  saying  to  John  as  she 
bade  him  good  night:  "  Do  come,  Mr.  Lenox, 
whenever  you  feel  like  it.  We  are  very  quiet 
people,  and  are  almost  always  at  home." 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Carling,"  responded  John, 
with  much  sincerity.  "  I  shall  be  most  glad  to. 
I  am  so  quiet  myself  as  to  be  practically  noise 
less." 

The  hall  of  the  Carlings'  house  was  their  fa 
vorite  sitting  place  in  the  evening.  It  ran  nearly 
the  whole  depth  of  the  house,  and  had  a  wide 
fireplace  at  the  end.  The  further  right  hand  por 
tion  was  recessed  by  the  stairway,  which  rose 
from  about  the  middle  of  its  length. 

Miss  Blake  sat  in  a  low  chair,  and  John  took 
its  fellow  at  the  other  angle  of  the  fireplace,  which 
contained  the  smoldering  remnant  of  a  wood 
fire.  She  had  a  bit  of  embroidery  stretched  over  a 
circular  frame  like  a  drum-head.  Needlework 
was  not  a  passion  with  her,  but  it  was  under 
stood  in  the  Carling  household  that  in  course  of 


DAVID   HARUM.  67 

time  a  set  of  table  doilies  of  elaborate  devices  in 
colored  silks  would  be  forthcoming.  It  has  been 
deplored  by  some  philosopher  that  custom  does 
not  sanction  such  little  occupations  for  masculine 
hands.  It  would  be  interesting  to  speculate  how 
many  embarrassing  or  disastrous  consequences 
might  have  been  averted  if  at  a  critical  point  in 
a  negotiation  or  controversy  a  needle  had  had 
to  be  threaded  or  a  dropped  stitch  taken  up  before 
a  reply  was  made,  to  say  nothing  of  an  excuse 
for  averting  features  at  times  without  confession 
of  confusion. 

The  great  and  wise  Charles  Reade  tells  how 
his  hero,  who  had  an  island,  a  treasure  ship,  and 
a  few  other  trifles  of  the  sort  to  dispose  of,  in 
sisted  upon  Captain  Fullalove's  throwing  away 
the  stick  he  was  whittling,  as  giving  the  captain 
an  unfair  advantage.  The  value  of  the  embroid 
ered  doily  as  an  article  of  table  napery  may  be 
open  to  question,  but  its  value,  in  an  unfinished 
state,  as  an  adjunct  to  discreet  conversation,  is 
beyond  all  dispute. 

"Ought  I  to  say  good  night?"  asked  John 
with  a  smile,  as  he  seated  himself  on  the  disap 
pearance  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carling. 

"  I  don't  see  any  reason,"  she  replied.  "  It 
isn't  late.  Julius  is  in  one  of  his  periods  of  retir 
ing  early  just  now.  By  and  by  he  will  be  sure 
to  take  up  the  idea  again  that  his  best  sleep  is 
after  midnight.  At  present  he  is  on  the  theory 
that  it  is  before  twelve  o'clock." 

"  How  has  he  been  since  your  return?"  John 
asked. 

"  Better  in  some  ways,  I  think,"  she  replied. 
"  He  seems  to  enjoy  the  home  life  in  contrast 
with  the  traveling  about  and  living  in  hotels^  and 


68  DAVID   HARUM. 

then,  in  a  moderate  way,  he  is  obliged  to  give 
some  attention  to  business  matters,  and  to  come 
in  contact  with  men  and  affairs  generally." 

"  And  you?  "  said  John.  "  You  find  it  pleas 
ant  to  be  back?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  do.  As  my  sister  said, 
we  are  quiet  people.  She  goes  out  so  little  that 
it  is  almost  not  at  all,  and  when  I  go  it  has  nearly 
always  to  be  with  some  one  else.  And  then,  you 
know  that  while  Alice  and  I  are  originally  New 
Yorkers,  we  have  only  been  back  here  for  two  or 
three  years.  Most  of  the  people,  really,  to  whose 
houses  we  go  are  those  who  knew  my  father. 
But,"  she  added,  "  it  is  a  comfort  not  to  be  carry 
ing  about  a  traveling  bag  in  one  hand  and  a 
weight  of  responsibility  in  the  other." 

"  I  should  think,"  said  John,  laughing,  "  that 
your  maid  might  have  taken  the  bag,  even  if  she 
couldn't  carry  your  responsibilities." 

"  No,"  she  said,  joining  in  his  laugh,  "  that 
particular  bag  was  too  precious,  and  Eliza  was 
one  of  my  most  serious  responsibilities.  She  had 
to  be  looked  after  like  the  luggage,  and  I  used  to 
wish  at  times  that  she  could  be  labeled  and  go 
in  the  van.  How  has  it  been  with  you  since  your 
return?  and,"  as  she  separated  a  needleful  of  silk 
from  what  seemed  an  inextricable  tangle,  "  if  I 
may  ask,  what  have  you  been  doing?  I  was  re 
calling,"  she  added,  putting  the  silk  into  the 
needle,  "  some  things  you  said  to  me  on  the  Al- 
truria.  Do  you  remember?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  said  John.  "  I  think  I  remember 
every  word  said  on  both  sides,  and  I  have  thought 
very  often  of  some  things  you  said  to  me.  In 
fact,  they  had  more  influence  upon  my.  mind  than 
y,ou  imagined" 


DAVID    HARUM.  69 

She  turned  her  work  so  that  the  light  would 
fall  a  little  more  directly  upon  it. 

"  Really?  "  she  asked.     "  In  what  way?  " 

"  You  put  in  a  drop  or  two  that  crystallized 
the  whole  solution,"  he  answered.  She  looked 
up  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  always  knew  that  I  should 
have  to  stop  drifting  some  time,  but  there  never 
seemed  to  be  any  particular  time.  Some  things 
you  said  to  me  set  the  time.  I  am  under  '  full 
steam  a-head '  at  present.  Behold  in  me,"  he 
exclaimed,  touching  his  breast,  "  the  future  chief 
of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States,  of 
whom  you  shall  say  some  time  in  the  next 
brief  interval  of  forty  years  or  so,  '  I  knew  him 
as  a  young  man,  and  one  for  whom  no  one 
would  have  predicted  such  eminence ! '  and  per 
haps  you  will  add,  '  It  was  largely  owing  to 
me.'" 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  in  which 
amusement  and  curiosity  were  blended. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  she  said,  laughing, 
"  upon  the  career  in  which  it  appears  I  had  the 
honor  to  start  you.  Am  I  being  told  that  you 
have  taken  up  the  law?  " 

"  Not  quite  the  whole  of  it  as  yet,"  he  said ; 
"  but  when  I  am  not  doing  errands  for  the  of 
fice  I  am  to  some  extent  taken  up  with  it,"  and 
then  he  told  her  of  his  talk  with  his  father  and 
what  had  followed.  She  overcame  a  refractory 
kink  in  her  silk  before  speaking. 

"  It  takes  a  long  time,  doesn't  it,  and  do  you 
like  it?"  she  asked. 

"  Well,"  said  John,  laughing  a  little,  "  a  weak 
er  word  than  '  fascinating '  would  describe  the 
pursuit,  but  I  hope  with  diligence  to  reach  some 


^o  DAVID    HARUM. 

of  the  interesting  features  in  the  course  of 
or  twelve  years." 

"  It  is  delightful,"  she  remarked,  scrutinizing 
the  pattern  of  her  work,  "  to  encounter  such  en 
thusiasm." 

"  Isn't  it?"  said  John,  not  in  the  least  wound 
ed  by  her  sarcasm. 

"  Very  much  so,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  have 
always  understood  that  it  is  a  mistake  to  be  too 
sanguine." 

"  Perhaps  I'd  better  make  it  fifteen  years, 
then,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  I  should  have  a 
choice  of  professions  by  that  time  at  any  rate. 
You  know  the  proverb  that  '  At  forty  every  man 
is  either  a  fool  or  a  physician.' "  She  looked  at 
him  with  a  smile.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  realize  the 
alternative."  She  laughed  a  little,  but  did  not 
reply. 

"  Seriously,"  he  continued,  "  I  know  that  in 
everything  worth  accomplishing  there  is  a  lot  of 
drudgery  to  be  gone  through  with  at  the  first, 
and  perhaps  it  seems  the  more  irksome  to  me 
because  I  have  been  so  long  idly  my  own  master. 
However,"  he  added,  "  I  shall  get  down  to  it,  or 
up  to  it,  after  a  while,  I  dare  say.  That  is  my  in 
tention,  at  any  rate." 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  ever  wished  that  I 
were  a  man,"  she  said  after  a  moment,  "  but 
I  often  find  myself  envying  a  man's  opportuni 
ties." 

"  Do  not  women  have  opportunities,  too?  "  he 
said.  "  Certainly  they  have  greatly  to  do  with 
the  determination  of  affairs." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  the  usual  an 
swer  that  woman's  part  is  to  influence  somebody. 
As  for  her  own  life,  it  is  largely  made  for  her. 


DAVID   HARUM.  7! 

She  nas,  for  the  most  part,  to  take  what  comes 
to  her  by  the  will  of  others." 

"  And  yet,"  said  John,  "  I  fancy  that  there 
has  seldom  been  a  great  career  in  which  some 
woman's  help  or  influence  was  not  a  factor." 

"  Even  granting-  that,"  she  replied,  "  the  career 
was  the  man's,  after  all,  and  the  fame  and  visible 
reward.  A  man  will  sometimes  say,  '  I  owe  all 
my  success  to  my  wife,  or  my  mother,  or  sister,' 
but  he  never  really  believes  it,  nor,  in  fact,  does 
any  one  else.  It  is  his  success,  after  all,  and  the 
influence  of  the  woman  is  but  a  circumstance, 
real  and  powerful  though  it  may  be.  I  am  not 
sure,"  she  added,  "  that  woman's  influence,  so 
called,  isn't  rather  an  overrated  thing.  Women 
like  to  feel  that  they  have  it,  and  men,  in  mat 
ters  which  they  hold  lightly,  flatter  them  by  yield 
ing,  but  I  am  doubtful  if  a  man  ever  arrives  at  or 
abandons  a  settled  course  or  conviction  through 
the  influence  of  a  woman,  however  exerted." 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong,"  said  John,  "  and  I 
feel  sure  of  so  much  as  this:  that  a  man  might 
often  be  or  do  for  a  woman's  sake  that  which  he 
would  not  for  its  sake  or  his  own." 

"  That  is  quite  another  thing,"  she  said. 
"  There  is  in  it  no  question  of  influence;  it  is  one 
of  impulse  and  motive." 

"  I  have  told  you  to-night,"  said  John,  "  that 
what  you  said  to  me  had  influenced  me  greatly." 

"  Pardon  me,"  she  replied,  "  you  employed  a 
figure  which  exactly  defined  your  condition.  You 
said  I  supplied  the  drop  which  caused  the  solu 
tion  to  crystallize — that  is,  to  elaborate  your  il 
lustration,  that  it  was  already  at  the  point  of 
saturation  with  your  own  convictions  and  inten- 


j2  DAVID    HARUM. 

"  I  said  also,"  he  urged,  "  that  you  had  set  the 
time  for  me.  Is  the  idea  unpleasant  to  you?" 
he  asked  after  a  moment,  while  he  watched  her 
face.  She  did  not  at  once  reply,  but  presently 
she  turned  to  him  with  slightly  heightened  color 
and  said,  ignoring  his  question: 

"  Would  you  rather  think  that  you  had  done 
what  you  thought  right  because  you  so  thought, 
or  because  some  one  else  wished  to  have  you? 
Or,  I  should  say,  would  you  rather  think  that  the 
right  suggestion  was  another's  than  your  own?" 

He  laughed  a  little,  and  said  evasively :  "  You 
ought  to  be  a  lawyer,  Miss  Blake.  I  should  hate 
to  have  you  cross-examine  me  unless  I  were  very 
sure  of  my  evidence." 

She  gave  a  little  shrug  of  her  shoulders  in 
reply  as  she  turned  and  resumed  her  embroidery. 
They  talked  for  a  while  longer,  but  of  other 
things,  the  discussion  of  woman's  influence  hav 
ing  been  dropped  by  mutual  consent. 

After  John's  departure  she  suspended  opera 
tions  on  the  doily,  and  sat  for  a  while  gazing  re 
flectively  into  the  fire.  She  was  a  person  as  frank 
with  herself  as  with  others,  and  with  as  little  van 
ity  as  was  compatible  with  being  human,  which 
is  to  say  that,  though  she  was  not  without  it,  it 
was  of  the  sort  which  could  be  gratified  but  not 
flattered — in  fact,  the  sort  which  flattery  wounds 
rather  than  pleases.  But  despite  her  apparent 
skepticism  she  had  not  been  displeased  by  John's 
assertion  that  she  had  influenced  him  in  his 
course.  She  had  expressed  herself  truly,  believ 
ing  that  he  would  have  done  as  he  had  without 
her  intervention;  but  she  thought  that  he  was 
sincere,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  her  to  have  him 
think  as  he  did. 


DAVID   HARUM.  73 

Considering  the  surroundings  and  conditions 
under  which  she  had  lived,  she  had  had  her  share 
of  the  acquaintance  and  attentions  of  agreeable 
men,  but  none  of  them  had  ever  got  with  her  be 
yond  the  stage  of  mere  friendliness.  There  had 
never  been  one  whose  coming  she  had  particu 
larly  looked  forward  to,  or  whose  going  she  had 
deplored.  She  had  thought  of  marriage  as  some 
thing  she  might  come  to,  but  she  had  promised 
herself  that  it  should  be  on  such  conditions  as 
were,  she  was  aware,  quite  improbable  of  ever  be 
ing  fulfilled.  She  would  not  care  for  a  man  be 
cause  he  was  clever  and  distinguished,  but  she  felt 
that  he  must  be  those  things,  and  have,  besides, 
those  qualities  of  character  and  person  which 
should  attract  her.  She  had  known  a  good  many 
men  who  were  clever  and  to  some  extent  distin 
guished,  but  none  who  had  attracted  her  person 
ally.  John  Lenox  did  not  strike  her  as  being 
particularly  clever,  and  he  certainly  was  not  dis 
tinguished,  nor,  she  thought,  ever  very  likely  to 
be ;  but  she  had  felt  a  pleasure  in  being  with  him 
which  she  had  never  experienced  in  the  society 
of  any  other  man,  and  underneath  some  boyish 
ways  she  divined  a  strength  and  steadfastness 
which  could  be  relied  upon  at  need.  And  she  ad 
mitted  to  herself  that  during  the  ten  days  since 
her  return,  though  she  had  unsparingly  snubbed 
her  sister's  wonderings  why  he  did  not  call,  she 
had  speculated  a  good  deal  upon  the  subject  her 
self,  with  a  sort  of  resentful  feeling  against  both 
herself  and  him  that  she  should  care 

Her  face  flushed  as  she  recalled  the  momen 
tary  pressure  of  his  hand  upon  hers  on  that  last 
night  on  deck.     She  rang  for  the  servant,  and 
went  up  to  her  room. 
6 


CHAPTER   IX. 

IT  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  narrative  to  dwell 
minutely  upon  the  events  of  the  next  few  months. 
Truth  to  say,  they  were  devoid  of  incidents  of 
sufficient  moment  in  themselves  to  warrant 
chronicle.  What  they  led  up  to  was  memorable 
enough. 

As  time  went  on  John  found  himself  on  terms 
of  growing  intimacy  with  the  Carling  household, 
and  eventually  it  came  about  that  if  there  passed 
a  day  when  their  door  did  not  open  to  him  it  was 
dies  non. 

'  Mr.  Carling  was  ostensibly  more  responsible 
than  the  ladies  for  the  frequency  of  our  friend's 
visits,  and  grew  to  look  forward  to  them.  In 
fact,  he  seemed  to  regard  them  as  paid  primarily 
to  himself,  and  ignored  an  occasional  suggestion 
on  his  wife's  part  that  it  might  not  be  wholly 
the  pleasure  of  a  chat  and  a  game  at  cards  with 
him  that  brought  the  young  man  so  often  to  the 
house.  And  when  once  she  ventured  to  concern 
him  with  some  stirrings  of  her  mind  on  the  sub 
ject,  he  rather  testily  (for  him)  pooh-poohed  her 
"misgivings,  remarking  that  Mary  was  her  own 
mistress,  and,  so  far  as  he  had  ever  seen,  remark 
ably  well  qualified  to  regulate  her  own  affairs. 
Had  she  ever  seen  anything  to  lead  her  to  sup 
pose  that  there  was  any  particular  sentiment  ex 
isting  between  Lenox  and  her  sister? 


DAVID   HARUM.  75 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Carling,  "  perhaps  not  ex 
actly,  but  you  know  how  those  things  go,  and 
he  always  stays  after  we  come  up  when  she  is  at 
home."  To  which  her  husband  vouchsafed  no 
reply,  but  began  a  protracted  wavering  as  to  the 
advisability  of  leaving  the  steam  on  or  turning 
it  off  for  the  night,  which  was  a  cold  one — a  di 
lemma  which,  involving  his  personal  welfare  or 
comfort  at  the  moment,  permitted  no  considera 
tion  of  other  matters  to  share  his  mind. 

Mrs.  Carling  had  not  spoken  to  her  sister 
upon  the  subject.  She  thought  that  that  young 
woman,  if  she  were  not,  as  Mr.  Carling  said,  "  re 
markably  well  qualified  to  regulate  her  own  af 
fairs,"  at  least  held  the  opinion  that  she  was,  very 
strongly. 

The  two  were  devotedly  fond  of  each  other, 
but  Mrs.  Carling  was  the  elder  by  twenty  years, 
and  in  her  love  was  an  element  of  maternal  so 
licitude  to  which  her  sister,  while  giving  love  for 
love  in  fullest  measure,  did  not  fully  respond. 
The  elder  would  have  liked  to  share  every 
thought,  but  she  was  neither  so  strong  nor  so 
clever  as  the  girl  to  whom  she  had  been  almost 
as  a  mother,  and  who,  though  perfectly  truthful 
and  frank  when  she  was  minded  to  express  her 
self,  gave,  as  a  rule,  little  satisfaction  to  attempts 
to  explore  her  mind,  and  on  some  subjects  was 
capable  of  meeting  such  attempts  with  impa 
tience,  not  to  say  resentment — a  fact  of  which 
her  sister  was  quite  aware.  But  as  time  went  on, 
and  the  frequency  of  John's  visits  and  attentions 
grew  into  a  settled  habit,  Mrs.  Carling's  uneasi 
ness,  with  which  perhaps  was  mingled  a  bit  of 
curiosity,  got  the  better  of  her  reserve,  and  she 


76  DAVID   HARUM. 

determined  to  get  what  satisfaction  could  be  ob 
tained  for  it. 

They  were  sitting  in  Mrs.  Carling's  room, 
which  was  over  the  drawing-room  in  the  front 
of  the  house.  A  fire  of  cannel  blazed  in  the 
grate. 

A  furious  storm  was  whirling  outside.  Mrs. 
Carling  was  occupied  with  some  sort  of  needle 
work,  and  her  sister,  with  a  writing  pad  on  her 
lap,  was  composing  a  letter  to  a  friend  with  whom 
she  carried  on  a  desultory  and  rather  one-sided 
correspondence.  Presently  she  yawned  slightly, 
and,  putting  down  her  pad,  went  over  to  the 
window  and  looked  out. 

"What  a  day!"  she  exclaimed.  "It  seems 
to  get  worse  and  worse.  Positively  you  can't  see 
across  the  street.  It's  like  a  western  blizzard." 

"  It  is,  really,"  said  Mrs.  Carling;  and  then, 
moved  by  the  current  of  thought  which  had  been 
passing  in  her  mind  of  late,  "  I  fancy  we  shall 
spend  the  evening  by  ourselves  to-night" 

"  That  would  not  be  so  unusual  as  to  be  ex 
traordinary,  would  it?"  said  Mary. 

"Wouldn't  it?"  suggested  Mrs.  Carling  in 
a  tone  that  was  meant  to  be  slightly  quizzical. 

"  We  are  by  ourselves  most  evenings,  are  we 
not?"  responded  her  sister,  without  turning 
around.  "  Why  do  you  particularize  to-night?  " 

"  I  was  thinking,"  answered  Mrs.  Carling, 
bending  a  little  closer  over  her  work,  "  that  even 
Mr.  Lenox  would  hardly  venture  out  in  such  a 
storm  unless  it  were  absolutely  necessary." 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Lenox ;  very  likely 
not,"  was  Miss  Blake's  comment,  in  a  tone  of 
indifferent  recollection. 

"  He  comes  here  very  often,   almost   every 


DAVID   HARUM.  77 

night,  in  fact,"  remarked  Mrs.  Carling,  looking 
up  sideways  at  her  sister's  back. 

"  Now  that  you  mention  it,"  said  Mary  dryly, 
"  I  have  noticed  something  of  the  sort  myself." 

"  Do  you  think  he  ought  to?  "  asked  her  sis 
ter,  after  a  moment  of  silence. 

"Why  not?"  said  the  girl,  turning  to  her 
questioner  for  the  first  time.  "  And  why  should 
I  think  he  should  or  should  not?  Doesn't  he 
come  to  see  Julius,  and  on  Julius's  invitation? 
I  have  never  asked  him — but  once,"  she  said, 
flushing  a  little  as  she  recalled  the  occasion  and 
the  wording  of  the  invitation. 

"  Do  you  think,"  returned  Mrs.  Carling,  "  that 
his  visits  are  wholly  on  Julius's  account,  and 
that  he  would  come  so  often  if  there  were  no 
other  inducement?  You  know,"  she  continued, 
pressing  her  point  timidly  but  persistently,  "  he 
always  stays  after  we  go  upstairs  if  you  are  at 
home,  and  I  have  noticed  that  when  you  are  out 
he  always  goes  before  our  time  for  retiring." 

"  I  should  say,"  was  the  rejoinder,  "  that  that 
was  very  much  the  proper  thing.  Whether  or 
not  he  comes  here  too  often  is  not  for  me  to 
say — I  have  no  opinion  on  the  subject.  But,  to 
do  him  justice,  he  is  about  the  last  man  to  wait 
for  a  tacit  dismissal,  or  to  cause  you  and  Julius 
to  depart  from  what  he  knows  to  be  your  regu 
lar  habit  out  of  politeness  to  him.  He  is  a  per 
son  of  too  much  delicacy  and  good  breeding  to 

stay  when — if — that  is  to  say "  She  turned 

again  to  the  window  without  completing  her  sen 
tence,  and,  though  Mrs.  Carling  thought  she 
could  complete  it  for  her,  she  wisely  forbone. 
After  a  moment  of  silence,  Mary  said  in  a  voice 
devoid  of  any  traces  of  confusion : 


78  DAVID  HARUM. 

"You  asked  me  if  I  thought  Mr.  Lenox 
would  come  so  often  if  there  were  no  object  in 
his  coming  except  to  see  Julius.  I  can  only  say 
that  if  Julius  were  out  of  the  question  I  think 
he  would  come  here  but  seldom ;  but,"  she  added, 
as  she  left  the  window  and  resumed  her  seat,  "  I 
do  not  quite  see  the  object  of  this  discussion,  and, 
indeed,  I  am  not  quite  sure  what  we  are  dis 
cussing.  Do  you  object,"  she  asked,  looking 
curiously  at  her  sister  and  smiling  slightly,  "  to 
Mr.  Lenox's  coming  here  as  he  does,  and  if  so, 
why? "  This  was  apparently  more  direct  than 
Mrs.  Carling  was  quite  prepared  for.  "  And  if 
you  do,"  Mary  proceeded,  "  what  is  to  be  done 
about  it?  Am  I  to  make  him  understand  that  it 
is  not  considered  the  proper  thing?  or  will  you? 
or  shall  we  leave  it  to  Julius?" 

Mrs.  Carling  looked  up  into  her  sister's  face, 
in  which  was  a  smile  of  amused  penetration,  and 
looked  down  again  in  visible  embarrassment. 

The  young  woman  laughed  as  she  shook  her 
finger  at  her. 

"  Oh,  you  transparent  goose ! "  she  cried. 
"What  did  he  say?" 

"What  did  who  say?"  was  the  evasive  re 
sponse. 

"  Julius,"  said  Mary,  putting  her  finger  under 
her  sister's  chin  and  raising  her  face.  "  Tell  me 
now.  You've  been  talking  with  him,  and  I  in 
sist  upon  knowing  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth.  So  there!  " 

"  Well,"  she  admitted  hesitatingly,  "  I  said  to 
him  something  like  what  I  have  to  you,  that  it 
seemed  to  me  that  Mr.  Lenox  came  very  often, 
and  that  I  did  not  believe  it  was  all  on  his  ac 
count,  and  that  he  "  (won't  somebody  please  in- 


DAVID    HARUM.  79 

vent  another  pronoun?)  "  always  stayed  when  you 
were  at  home " 

" and,"  broke  in  her  sister,  "  that  you  were 

afraid  my  young  affections  were  being  engaged, 
and  that,  after  all,  we  didn't  know  much  if  any- 
thing  about  the  young  man,  or,  perhaps,  that  he 
was  forming  a  hopeless  attachment,  and  so  on." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Carling,  "  I  didn't  say  that 
exactly.  I " 

"  Didn't  you,  really?"  said  Mary  teasingly. 
"  One  ought  to  be  explicit  in  such  cases,  don't 
you  think?  Well,  what  did  Julius  say?  Was  he 
very  much  concerned?"  Mrs.  Carling's  face 
colored  faintly  under  her  sister's  raillery,  and  she 
gave  a  little  embarrassed  laugh. 

"  Come,  now,"  said  the  girl  relentlessly, 
"what  did  he  say?" 

"  Well,"  answered  Mrs.  Carling,  "  I  must  ad 
mit  that  he  said  '  Pooh ! '  for  one  thing,  and  that 
you  were  your  own  mistress,  and,  so  far  as  he 
had  seen,  you  were  very  well  qualified  to  manage 
your  own  affairs." 

Her  sister  clapped  her  hands.  "  Such  dis 
crimination  have  I  not  seen,"  she  exclaimed,  "  no, 
not  in  Israel!  What  else  did  he  say?"  she  de 
manded,  with  a  dramatic  gesture.  "  Let  us  know 
the  worst." 

Mrs.  Carling  laughed  a  little.  "  I  don't  re- 
rrtember,"  she  admitted,  "  that  he  said  anything 
more  on  the  subject.  He  got  into  some  perplex 
ity  about  whether  the  steam  should  be  off  or  on, 
and  after  that  question  was  settled  we  went  to 
bed."  Mary  laughed  outright. 

"  So  Julius  doesn't  think  I  need  watching," 
she  said. 

"  Alary,"  protested  her  sister  in  a  hurt  tone, 


go  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  you  don't  think  I  ever  did  or  could  watch  you? 
I  don't  want  to  pry  into  your  secrets,  dear,"  and 
she  looked  up  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  girl 
dropped  on  her  knees  beside  her  sister  and  put 
her  arms  about  her  neck. 

"  You  precious  old  lamb!  "  she  cried,  "I  know 
you  don't.  You  couldn't  pry  into  anybody's  se 
crets  if  you  tried.  You  couldn't  even  try.  But 
'I  haven't  any,  dear,  and  I'll  tell  you  every  one 
of  them,  and,  rather  than  see  a  tear  in  your  dear 
eyes,  I  would  tell  John  Lenox  that  I  never  wanted 
to  see  him  again;  and  I  don't  know  what  you 
have  been  thinking,  but  I  haven't  thought  so  at 
all "  (which  last  assertion  made  even  Mrs.  Car- 
ling  laugh),  "  and  I  know  that  I  have  been  teas 
ing  and  horrid,  and  if  you  won't  put  me  in  the 
closet  I  will  be  good  and  answer  every  question 
like  a  nice  little  girl."  Whereupon  she  gave  her 
sister  a  kiss  and  resumed  her  seat  with  an  air  of 
abject  penitence  which  lasted  for  a  minute.  Then 
she  laughed  again,  though  there  was  a  watery 
gleam  in  her  own  eyes.  Mrs.  Carling  gave  her 
a  look  of  great  love  and  admiration. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  brought  up  the  sub 
ject,"  she  said,  "  knowing  as  I  do  how  you  feel 
about  such  discussions,  but  I  love  you  so  much 
that  sometimes  I  can't  help— " 

"  Alice,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "  please  have  the 
kindness  to  call  me  a  selfish  p — i — g.  It  will  re 
lieve  my  feelings." 

"  But  I  do  not  think  you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Car- 
ling  literally. 

"  But  I  am  at  times,"  declared  Mary,  "  and 
you  deserve  not  only  to  have,  but  to  be  shown,  all 
the  love  and  confidence  that  I  can  give  you.  It's 
only  this,  that  sometimes  your  solicitude  makes 


DAVID   HARUM.  8 1 

you  imagine  things  that  do  not  exist,  and  you 
think  I  am  withholding  my  confidence;  and  then, 
again,  I  am  enough  like  other  people  that  I  don't 
always  know  exactly  what  I  do  think.  Now, 
about  this  matter " 

"  Don't  say  a  word  about  it,  dear,"  her  sister 
interrupted,  "  unless  you  would  rather  than  not." 

"  I  wish  to,"  said  Mary.  "  Of  course  I  am 
not  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Lenox  comes 
here  very  often,  nor  that  he  seems  to  like  to  stay 
and  talk  with  me,  because,  don't  you  know,  if 
he  didn't  he  could  go  when  you  do,  and  I  don't 
mind  admitting  that,  as  a  general  thing,  I  like 
to  have  him  stay;  but,  as  I  said  to  you,  if  it 
weren't  for  Julius  he  would  not  come  here  very 
often." 

"  Don't  you  think,"  said  Mrs.  Carling,  now  on 
an  assured  footing,  "  that  if  it  were  not  for  you 
he  would  not  come  so  often?  " 

Perhaps  Mary  overestimated  the  attraction 
which  her  brother-in-law  had  for  Mr.  Lenox, 
and  she  smiled  slightly  as  she  thought  that  it  was 
quite  possible.  "  I  suppose,"  she  went  on,  with 
a  little  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "  that  the  proceed 
ing  is  not  strictly  conventional,  and  that  the  ab 
solutely  correct  thing  would  be  for  him  to  say 
good  night  when  you  and  Julius  do,  and  that 
there  are  those  who  would  regard  my  permitting 
a  young  man  in  no  way  related  to  me  to  see  me 
very  often  in  the  evening  without  the  protection 
of  a  duenna  as  a  very  unbecoming  thing." 

"  I  never  have  had  such  a  thought  about  it," 
declared  Mrs.  Carling. 

"  I  never  for  a  moment  supposed  you  had, 
dear,"  said  Mary,  "  nor  have  I.  We  are  rather 
unconventional  people,  making  very  few  claims 
7 


g2  DAVID   HARUM. 

upon  society,  and  upon  whom  '  society '  makes 
very  few." 

"  I  am  rather  sorry  for  that  on  your  account," 
said  her  sister. 

"  You  needn't  be,"  was  the  rejoinder.  "  I 
have  no  yearnings  in  that  direction  which  are  not 
satisfied  with  what  I  have."  She  sat  for  a  minute 
or  two  with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  knee, 
gazing  reflectively  into  the  fire,  which,  in  the 
growing  darkness  of  the  winter  afternoon,  af 
forded  almost  the  only  light  in  the  room.  Pres 
ently  she  became  conscious  that  her  sister  was 
regarding  her  with  an  air  of  expectation,  and  re 
sumed:  ''Leaving  the  question  of  the  conven 
tions  out  of  the  discussion  as  settled,"  she  said, 
"  there  is  nothing,  Alice,  that  you  need  have  any 
concern  about,  either  on  Mr.  Lenox's  account  or 
mine." 

"  You  like  him,  don't  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Car- 
ling. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary  frankly,  "  I  like  him  very 
much.  We  have  enough  in  common  to  be  rather 
sympathetic,  and  we  differ  enough  not  to  be  dull, 
and  so  we  get  on  very  well.  I  never  had  a  broth 
er,"  she  continued,  after  a  momentary  pause, 
"  but  I  feel  toward  him  as  I  fancy  I  should  feel 
toward  a  brother  of  about  my  own  age,  though 
he  is  five  or  six  years  older  than  I  am." 

"  You  don't  'think,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Carling 
timidly,  "  that  you  are  getting  to  care  for  him 
at  all?" 

"  In  the  sense  that  you  use  the  word,"  was  the 
reply,  "  not  the  least  in  the  world.  If  there  were 
to  come  a  time  when  I'  really  believed  I  should 
never  see  him  again,  I  should  be  sorry;  but  if 
at  any  time  it  were  a  question  of  six  months  or 


DAVID    HARUM.  83 

a  year,  I  do  not  think  my  equanimity  would  be 
particularly  disturbed." 

"And  how  about  him?"  suggested  Mrs.  Car- 
ling.  There  was  no  reply. 

"  Don't  you  think  he  may  care  for  you,  or  be 
getting  to?" 

Mary  frowned  slightly,  half  closing  her  eyes 
and  stirring  a  little  uneasily  in  her  chair. 

"  He  hasn't  said  anything  to  me  on  the  sub 
ject,"  she  replied  evasively. 

"Would  that  be  necessary?"  asked  her 
sister. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  was  the  reply,  "  if  the  fact 
were  very  obvious." 

"  Isn't  it?  "  persisted  Mrs.  Carling,  with  un 
usual  tenacity. 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl,  "  to  be  quite  frank  with 
you,  I  have  thought  once  or  twice  that  he  enter 
tained  some  such  idea — that  is — no,  I  don't  mean 
to  put  it  just  that  way.  I  mean  that  once  or 
twice  something  has  occurred  to  give  me  that 
idea.  That  isn't  very  coherent,  is  it?  But  even 
if  it  be  so,"  she  went  on  after  a  moment,  with  a 
wave  of  her  hands,  "  what  of  it?  What  does  it 
signify?  And  if  it  does  signify,  what  can  I  do 
about  it?" 

"  You  have  thought  about  it,  then?"  said  her 
sister. 

"  As  much  as  I  have  told  you,"  she  answered. 
"  I  am  not  a  very  sentimental  person,  I  think, 
and  not  very  much  on  the  lookout  for  such 
things,  but  I  know  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a 
man's  taking  a  fancy  to  a  young  woman  under 
circumstances  which  bring  them  often  together, 
and  I  have  been  led  to  believe  that  it  isn't  neces 
sarily  fatal  to  the  man  even  if  nothing  comes  of 


84  DAVID   HARUM. 

it.  But  be  that  as  it  may,"  she  said  with  a  shrug 
of  her  shoulders,  "  what  can  I  do  about  it?  I 
can't  say  to  Mr.  Lenox,  '  I  think  you  ought  not 
to  come  here  so  much/  unless  I  give  a  reason  for 
it,  and  I  think  we  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  there  is  no  reason  except  the  danger — to  put 
it  in  so  many  words — of  his  falling  in  love  with 
me.  I  couldn't  quite  say  that  to  him,  could  I  ?  " 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Car- 
ling  faintly. 

"  No,  I  should  say  not"  remarked  the  girl. 
"  If  he  were  to  say  anything  to  me  in  the  way 
of — declaration  is  the  word,  isn't  it? — it  would  be 
another  matter.  But  there  is  no  danger  of  that." 

"  Why  not,  if  he  is  fond  of  you?"  asked  her 
sister. 

"  Because,"  said  Mary,  with  an  emphatic  nod, 
"  I  won't  let  him,"  which  assertion  was  rather 
weakened  by  her  adding,  "  and  he  wouldn't,  if 
I  would." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  her  sister. 

"  Well,"  said  Mary,  "  I  don't  pretend  to  know 
all  that  goes  on  in  his  mind;  but  allowing,  or 
rather  conjecturing,  that  he  does  care  for  me  in 
the  way  you  mean,  I  haven't  the  least  fear  of 
his  telling  me  so,  and  one  of  the  reasons  is  this, 
that  he  is  wholly  dependent  upon  his  father,  with 
no  other  prospect  for  years  to  come." 

"  I  had  the  idea  somehow,"  said  Mrs.  Car- 
ling,  "  that  his  father  was  very  well-to-do.  The 
young  man  gives  one  the  impression  of  a  per 
son  who  has  always  had  everything  that  he 
wanted." 

"  I  think  that  is  so,"  said  Mary,  "  but  he  told 
me  one  day,  coming  over  on  the  steamer,  that 
he  knew  nothing  whatever  of  his  own  prospects 


DAVID   HARUM.  8$ 

or  his  father's  affairs.  I  don't  remember — at 
least,  it  doesn't  matter — how  he  came  to  say 
as  much,  but  he  did,  and  afterward  gave  me  a 
whimsical  catalogue  of  his  acquirements  and  ac 
complishments,  remarking,  I  remember,  that 
'  there  was  not  a  dollar  in  the  whole  list ' ;  and 
lately,  though  you  must  not  fancy  that  he  dis 
cusses  his  own  affairs  with  me,  he  has  now  and 
then  said  something  to  make  me  guess  that  he 
was  somewhat  troubled  about  them." 

"  Is  he  doing  anything?  "  asked  Mrs.  Carling. 

"  He  told  me  the  first  evening  he  called  here," 
said  Mary,  "  that  he  was  studying  law,  at  his  fa 
ther's  suggestion;  but  I  don't  remember  the 
name  of  the  firm  in  whose  office  he  is." 

"  Why  doesn't  he  ask  his  father  about  his 
prospects?"  said  Mrs.  Carling. 

Mary  laughed.  "  You  seem  to  be  so  much 
more  interested  in  the  matter  than  I  am,"  she 
said,  "  why  don't  you  ask  him  yourself? "  To 
which  unjustifiable  rejoinder  her  sister  made  no 
reply. 

"  I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't,"  she  re 
marked. 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  said  Mary.  "  I  fancy 
from  what  he  has  told  me  that  his  father  is  a 
singularly  reticent  man,  but  one  in  whom  his 
son  has  always  had  the  most  implicit  confidence. 
I  imagine,  too,  that  until  recently,  at  any  rate,  he 
has  taken  it  for  granted  that  his  father  was 
wealthy.  He  has  not  confided  any  misgivings 
to  me,  but  if  he  has  any  he  is  just  the  sort  of 
person  not  to  ask,  and  certainly  not  to  press  a 
question  with  his  father." 

"  It  would  seem  like  carrying  delicacy  almost 
too  far,"  remarked  Mrs.  Carling. 


86  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  Perhaps  it  would,"  said  her  sister,  "  but  I 
think  I  can  understand  and  sympathize  with  it." 

Mrs.  Carling  broke  the  silence  which  fol 
lowed  for  a  moment  or  two  as  if  she  were  think 
ing  aloud.  "  You  have  plenty  of  money,"  she 
said,  and  colored  at  her  inadvertence.  Her  sister 
looked  at  her  for  an  instant  with  a  humorous 
smile,  and  then,  as  she  rose  and  touched  the  bell 
button,  said,  "  That's  another  reason." 


CHAPTER  X. 

I  THINK  it  should  hardly  be  imputed  to  John 
as  a  fault  or  a  shortcoming  that  he  did  not  for  a 
long  time  realize  his  father's  failing  powers. 
True,  as  has  been  stated,  he  had  noted  some 
changes  in  appearance  on  his  return,  but  they 
were  not  great  enough  to  be  startling,  and, 
though  he  thought  at  times  that  his  father's 
manner  was  more  subdued  than  he  had  ever 
known  it  to  be,  nothing  really  occurred  to  arouse 
his  suspicion  or  anxiety.  After  a  few  days  the 
two  men  appeared  to  drop  into  their  accustomed 
relation  and  routine,  meeting  in  the  morning  and 
at  dinner;  but  as  John  picked  up  the  threads  of 
his  acquaintance  he  usually  went  out  after  din 
ner,  and  even  when  he  did  not  his  father  went 
early  to  his  own  apartment. 

From  John's  childhood  he  had  been  much  of 
the  time  away  from  home,  and  there  had  never, 
partly  from  that  circumstance  and  partly  from 
the  older  man's  natural  and  habitual  reserve, 
been  very  much  intimacy  between  them.  The 
father  did  not  give  his  own  confidence,  and, 
while  always  kind  and  sympathetic  when  ap 
pealed  to,  did  not  ask  his  son's;  and,  loving  his 
father  well  and  loyally,  and  trusting  him  implic 
itly,  it  did  not  occur  to  John  to  feel  that  there 
was  anything  wanting  in  the  relation.  It  was  as 

87 


83  DAVID   HARUM, 

it  had  always  been.  He  was  accustomed  to  ac 
cept  what  his  father  did  or  said  without  question, 
and,  as  is  very  often  the  case,  had  always  re 
garded  him  as  an  old  man.  He  had  never  felt 
that  they  could  be  in  the  same  equation.  In 
truth,  save  for  their  mutual  affection,  they  had 
little  in  common;  and  if,  as  may  have  been  the 
case,  his  father  had  any  cravings  for  a  closer  and 
more  intimate  relation,  he  made  no  sign,  ac 
quiescing  in  his  son's  actions  as  the  son  did  in 
his,  without  question  or  suggestion.  They  did 
not  know  each  other,  and  such  cases  are  not 
rare,  more  is  the  pity. 

But  as  time  went  on  even  John's  unwatchful 
eye  could  not  fail  to  notice  that  all  was  not  well 
with  his  father.  Haggard  lines  were  multiply 
ing  in  the  quiet  face,  and  the  silence  at  the  dinner 
table  was  often  unbroken  except  by  John's  un 
fruitful  efforts  to  keep  some  sort  of  a  conversa 
tion  in  motion.  More  and  more  frequently  it 
occurred  that  his  father  would  retire  to  his  own 
room  immediately  after  dinner  was  over,  and 
the  food  on  his  plate  would  be  almost  untouched, 
while  he  took  more  wine  than  had  ever  been  his 
habit.  John,  retiring  late,  would  often  hear  him 
stirring  uneasily  in  his  room,  and  it  would  be 
plain  in  the  morning  that  he  had  spent  a  wake 
ful,  if  not  a  sleepless,  night.  Once  or  twice  on 
such  a  morning  John  had  suggested  to  his  fa 
ther  that  he  should  not  go  down  to  the  office, 
and  the  suggestion  had  been  met  with  so  irri 
table  a  negative  as  to  excite  his  wonder. 

It  was  a  day  in  the  latter  part  of  March.  The 
winter  had  been  unusually  severe,  and  lingered 
into  spring  with  a  heart-sickening  tenacity,  oc- 


DAVID    HARUM.  89 

casional  hints  of  clemency  and  promise  being 
followed  by  recurrences  which  were  as  irritating 
as  a  personal  affront. 

John  had  held  to  his  work  in  the  office,  if 
not  with  positive  enthusiasm,  at  least  with  indus 
try,  and  thought  that  he  had  made  some  prog 
ress.  On  the  day  in  question  the  managing 
clerk  commented  briefly  but  favorably  on  some 
thing  of  his  which  was  satisfactory,  and,  such 
experiences  being  rare,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
feeling  of  mild  elation.  He  was  also  cherishing 
the  anticipation  of  a  call  at  Sixty-ninth  Street, 
where,  for  reasons  unnecessary  to  recount,  he 
had  not  been  for  a  week.  At  dinner  that  night 
his  father  seemed  more  inclined  than  for  a  long 
time  to  keep  up  a  conversation  which,  though 
of  no  special  import,  was  cheerful  in  comparison 
with  the  silence  which  had  grown  to  be  almost 
the  rule,  and  the  two  men  sat  for  a  while  over 
the  coffee  and  cigars.  Presently,  however,  the 
elder  rose  from  the  table,  saying  pleasantly,  "  I 
suppose  you  are  going  out  to-night." 

"  Not  if  you'd  like  me  to  stay  in,"  was  the 
reply.  "  I  have  no  definite  engagement." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Lenox,  "  not  at  all,  not 
at  all,"  and  as  he  passed  his  son  on  the  way  out 
of  the  room  he  put  out  his  hand  and  taking 
John's,  said,  "  Good  night." 

As  John  stood  for  a  moment  rather  taken 
aback,  he  heard  his  father  mount  the  stairs  to 
his  room.  He  was  puzzled  by  the  unexpected 
and  unusual  occurrence,  but  finally  concluded 
that  his  father,  realizing  how  taciturn  they  had 
become  of  late,  wished  to  resume  their  former 
status,  and  this  view  was  confirmed  to  his  mind 
by  the  fact  that  they  had  been  more  companion- 


90  DAVID    HARUM. 

able  than  usual  that  evening,  albeit  nothing  of 
any  special  significance  had  been  said. 

As  has  been  stated,  a  longer  interval  than 
usual  had  elapsed  since  John's  last  visit  to  Sixty- 
ninth  Street,  a  fact  which  had  been  commented 
on  by  Mr.  Carling,  but  not  mentioned  between 
the  ladies.  When  he  found  himself  at  that  hos 
pitable  house  on  that  evening,  he  was  greeted 
by  Miss  Blake  alone. 

"  Julius  did  not  come  down  to-night,  and  my 
sister  is  \vith  him,"  she  said,  "  so  you  will  have 
to  put  up  writh  my  society — unless  you'd  like  me 
to  send  up  for  Alice.  Julius  is  strictly  en  re- 
traitc,  I  should  say." 

"  Don't  disturb  her,  I  beg,"  protested  John, 
laughing,  and  wondering  a  bit  at  the  touch  of 
coquetry  in  her  speech,  something  unprecedented 
in  his  experience  of  her,  "  if  you  are  willing  to 
put  up  with  my  society.  I  hope  Mr.  Carling  is 
not  ill?" 

They  seated  themselves  as  she  replied:  "  Xo, 
nothing  serious,  I  should  say.  A  bit  of  a  cold, 
I  fancy;  and  for  a  fortnight  he  has  been  more 
nervous  than  usual.  The  changes  in  the  weather 
have  been  so  great  and  so  abrupt  that  they  have 
worn  upon  his  nerves.  He  is  getting  very  un 
easy  again.  Now,  after  spending  the  winter,  and 
when  spring  is  almost  at  hand/  I  believe  that  if 
he  could  make  up  his  mind  where  to  go  he  would 
be  for  setting  off  to-morrow." 

"  Really?"  said  John,  in  a  tone  of  dismay. 

"  Quite  so,"  she  replied  with  a  nod. 

"  But,"  he  objected,  "  it  seems  too  late  or 
too  early.  Spring  may  drop  in  upon  us  any  day. 
Isn't  this  something  very  recent?" 

"  It  has  been  developing  for  a  week  or  ten 


DAVID  HARU:-:.  91 

days,"  she  answered,  "  and  symptoms  have  indi 
cated  a  crisis  for  some  time.  In  fact,"  she  added, 
with  a  little  vexed  laugh,  "  we  have  talked  of 
nothing  for  a  week  but  the  advantages  and  dis 
advantages  of  Florida,  California,  North  Caro 
lina,  South  Carolina,  and  Virginia  at  large;  be 
sides  St.  Augustine,  Monterey,  Santa  Barbara, 
Aiken,  Asheville,  Hot  Springs,  Old  Point  Com 
fort,  Bermuda,  and  I  don't  know  how  many 
other  places,  not  forgetting  Atlantic  City  and 
Lakewood,  and  only  not  Barbadoes  and  the 
Sandwich  Islands  because  nobody  happened  to 
think  of  them.  Julius,"  remarked  Miss  Blake, 
"  would  have  given  a  forenoon  to  the  discussion 
of  those  two  places  as  readily  as  to  any  of  the 
others." 

"  Can't  you  talk  him  along  into  warm 
weather?  "  suggested  John,  with  rather  a  mirth 
less  laugh.  "  Don't  you  think  that  if  the  weather 
were  to  change  for  good,  as  it's  likely  to  do  al 
most  any  time  now.  he  might  put  off  going  till 
the  usual  summer  flitting?" 

"  The  change  in  his  mind  will  have  to  come 
pretty  soon  if  I  am  to  retain  my  mental  facul 
ties,  she  declared.  "He  might  possibly,  but 
I  am  afraid  not,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head. 
"  He  has  the  idea  fixed  in  his  mind,  and  consid 
erations  of  the  weather  here,  while  they  got  him 
started,  are  not  now7  so  much  the  question.  He 
has  the  moving  fever,  and  I  am  afraid  it  will  have 
to  run  its  course.  I  think,"  she  said,  after  a  mo 
ment,  "  that  if  I  were  to  formulate  a  special 
anathema,  it  would  be,  *  May  traveling  seize 
you!>: 

"  Or  restlessness."  suggested  John. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  that's  more  accurate,  per- 


92 


DAVID   HARUM, 


haps,  but  it  doesn't  sound  quite  so  smart.  Julius 
is  in  that  state  of  mind  when  the  only  place  that 
seems  desirable  is  somewhere  else/' 

"  Of  course  you  will  have  to  go,"  said  John 
mournfully. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  with  an  air  of  com 
pulsory  resignation.  "  I  shall  not  only  have  to 
go,  of  course,  but  I  shall  probably  have  to  de 
cide  where  in  order  to  save  my  mind.  But  it  will 
certainly  be  somewhere,  so  I  might  as  well  be 
packing  my  trunks." 

"  And  you  will  be  away  indefinitely,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"  Yes,  I  imagine  so." 

"Dear  me!"  John  ejaculated  in  a  dismal 
tone. 

They  were  sitting  as  described  on  a  former 
occasion,  and  the  young  woman  was  engaged 
upon  the  second  (perhaps  the  third,  or  even  the 
fourth)  of  the  set  of  doilies  to  which  she  had  com 
mitted  herself.  She  took  some  stitches  with  a 
composed  air,  without  responding  to  her  com 
panion's  exclamation. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said  presently,  lean 
ing  forward  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his 
hands  hanging  in  an  attitude  of  unmistakable 
dejection,  and  staring  fixedly  into  the  fire. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  myself,"  she  said,  bending 
her  head  a  little  closer  over  her  work.  "  I  think 
I  like  being  in  New  York  in  the  spring  better 
than  at  any  other  time;  and  I  don't  at  all  fancy 
the  idea  of  living  in  my  trunks  again  for  an  in 
definite  period." 

"  I  shall  miss  you  horribly,"  he  said,  turning 
his  face  toward  her. 

Her  eyes  opened  with  a  lift  of  the  brows,  but 


DAVID   HARUM.  93 

whether  the  surprise  so  indicated  was  quite  genu 
ine  is  a  matter  for  conjecture. 

"  Yes,"  he  declared  desperately,  "  I  shall,  in 
deed." 

"  I  should  fancy  you  must  have  plenty  of 
other  friends,"  she  said,  flushing  a  little,  "  and  I 
have  wondered  sometimes  whether  Julius's  de 
mands  upon  you  were  not  more  confident  than 
warrantable,  and  whether  you  wouldn't  often 
rather  have  gone  elsewhere  than  to  come  here 
to  play  cards  with  him."  She  actually  said  this 
as  if  she  meant  it. 

"  Do  you  suppose "  he  exclaimed,  and 

checked  himself.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come 
because — well,  I've  been  only  too  glad  to  come, 
and — I  suppose  it  has  got  to  be  a  habit,"  he  added, 
rather  lamely.  "  You  see,  I've  never  known  any 
people  in  the  way  I  have  known  you.  It  has 
seemed  to  me  more  like  home  life  than  anything 
I've  ever  known.  There  has  never  been  any  one 
but  my  father  and  I,  and  you  can  have  no  idea 
what  it  has  been  to  me  to  be  allowed  to  come  here 

as  I  have,  and — oh,  you  must  know "  He 

hesitated,  and  instantly  she  advanced  her  point. 

Her  face  was  rather  white,  and  the  hand 
which  lay  upon  the  work  in  her  lap  trembled 
a  little,  while  she  clasped  the  arm  of  the  chair 
with  the  other;  but  she  broke  in  upon  his  hesi 
tation  with  an  even  voice: 

"  It  has  been  very  pleasant  for  us  all,  I'm 
sure,"  she  said,  "  and,  frankly,  I'm  sorry  that  it 
must  be  interrupted  for  a  while,  but  that  is  about 
all  there  is  of  it,  isn't  it?  We  shall  probably  be 
back  not  later  than  October,  I  should  say,  and 
then  you  can  renew  your  contests  with  Julius 
and  your  controversies  with  me." 


94  DAVID   HARUM. 

Her  tone  and  what  she  said  recalled  to  him 
their  last  night  on  board  the  ship,  but  there  was 
no  relenting  on  this  occasion.  He  realized  that 
for  a  moment  he  had  been  on  the  verge  of  tell 
ing  the  girl  that  he  loved  her,  and  he  realized, 
too,  that  she  had  divined  his  impulse  and  pre 
vented  the  disclosure;  but  he  registered  a  vow 
that  he  would  know  before  he  saw  her  again 
whether  he  might  consistently  tell  her  his  love, 
and  win  or  lose  upon  the  touch. 

Miss  Blake  made  several  inaccurate  efforts 
to  introduce  her  needle  at  the  exact  point  de 
sired,  and  when  that  endeavor  was  accomplished 
broke  the  silence  by  saying,  "  Speaking  of  '  Oc 
tober/  have  you  read  the  novel?  I  think  it  is 
charming." 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  with  his  vow  in  his  mind, 
but  not  sorry  for  the  diversion,  "  and  I  enjoyed 
it  very  much.  I  thought  it  was  immensely 
clever,  but  I  confess  that  I  didn't  quite  sym 
pathize  with  the  love  affairs  of  a  hero  who  was 
past  forty,  and  I  must  also  confess  that  I  thought 
the  girl  was,  well — to  put  it  in  plain  English — a 
fool." 

Mary  laughed,  with  a  little  quaver  in  her 
voice.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  that  some 
times  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  older  than  you 
are?" 

"  I  know  you're  awfully  wise,"  said  John  with 
a  laugh,  and  from  that  their  talk  drifted  off  into 
the  safer  channels  of  their  usual  intercourse  until 
he  rose  to  say  good  night. 

"  Of  course,  we  shall  see  you  again  before  we 
go,"  she  said  as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  Oh,"  he  declared,  "  I  intend  regularly  to 
haunt  the  place." 


CHAPTER   XL 

WHEN  John  came  down  the  next  morning 
his  father,  who  was,  as  a  rule,  the  most  punc 
tual  of  men,  had  not  appeared.  He  opened  the 
paper  and  sat  down  to  wait.  Ten  minutes  passed, 
fifteen,  twenty.  He  rang  the  bell.  "  Have  you 
heard  my  father  this  morning?  "  he  said  to  Jef 
frey,  remembering  for  the  first  time  that  he  him 
self  had  not. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  man.  "  He  most  gen 
erally  coughs  a  little  in  the  morning,  but  I  don't 
think  I  heard  him  this  morning,  sir." 

"  Go  up  and  see  why  he  doesn't  come  down," 
said  John,  and  a  moment  later  he  followed  the 
servant  upstairs,  to  find  him  standing  at  the 
chamber  door  with  a  frightened  face. 

"  He  must  be  very  sound  asleep,  sir,"  said 
Jeffrey.  "  He  hasn't  answered  to  my  knockin' 
or  callin',  sir."  John  tried  the  door.  He  found 
the  chain  bolt  on,  and  it  opened  but  a  few  inches. 
"Father!"  he  called,  and  then  again,  louder. 
He  turned  almost  unconsciously  to  Jeffrey,  and 
found  his  own  apprehensions  reflected  in  the 
man's  face.  "  We  must  break  in  the  door,"  he 
said.  "  Now,  together!  "  and  the  bolt  gave  way. 

His  father  lay  as  if  asleep.  "  Go  for  the  doc 
tor  at  once!  Bring  him  back  with  you.  Run!  " 
he  cried  to  the  servant.  Custom  and  instinct 

95 


96  DAVID   HARUM. 

said,  "  Send  for  the  doctor,"  but  he  knew  in  his 
heart  that  no  ministrations  would  ever  reach  the 
still  figure  on  the  bed,  upon  which,  for  the  mo 
ment,  he  could  not  look.  It  was  but  a  few  min 
utes  (how  long  such  minutes  are!)  before  the 
doctor  came — Doctor  Willis,  who  had  brought 
John  into  the  world,  and  had  been  a  lifelong 
friend  of  both  father  and  son.  He  went  swiftly 
to  the  bed  without  speaking,  and  made  a  brief 
examination,  while  John  watched  him  with  fas 
cinated  eyes;  and  as  the  doctor  finished,  the  son 
dropped  on  his  knees  by  the  bed,  and  buried  his 
face  in  it.  The  doctor  crossed  the  room  to  Jef 
frey,  who  was  standing  in  the  door  with  an  awe- 
stricken  face,  and  in  a  low  voice  gave  him  some 
directions.  Then,  as  the  man  departed,  he  first 
glanced  at  the  kneeling  figure  and  next  looked 
searchingly  about  the  room.  Presently  he  went 
over  to  the  grate  in  which  were  the  ashes  of  an 
extinct  fire,  and,  taking  the  poker,  pressed  down 
among  them  and  covered .  over  a  three  or  four 
ounce  vial.  He  had  found  what  he  was  looking 
for. 

There  is  no  need  to  speak  of  the  happenings 
of  the  next  few  days,  nor  is  it  necessary  to  touch 
at  any  length  upon  the  history  of  some  of  the 
weeks  and  months  which  ensued  upon  this  crisis 
in  John  Lenox's  life,  a  time  when  it  seemed  to 
him  that  everything  he  had  ever  cared  for  had 
been  taken.  And  yet,  with  that  unreason  which 
may  perhaps  be  more  easily  understood  than  ac 
counted  for,  the  one  thing  upon  which  his  mind 
most  often  dwelt  was  that  he  had  had  no  answer 
to  his  note  to  Mary  Blake.  We  know  what  hap 
pened  to  her  missive.  It  turned  up  long  after- 


DAVID    HARUM.  97 

ward  in  the  pocket  of  Master  Jacky  Carling's 
overcoat;  so  long  afterward  that  John,  as  far  as 
Mary  was  concerned,  had  disappeared  altogether. 
The  discovery  of  Jacky's  dereliction  explained  to 
her,  in  part  at  least,  why  she  had  never  seen  him 
or  heard  from  him  after  that  last  evening  at 
Sixty-ninth  Street.  The  Carlings  went  away 
some  ten  days  later,  and  she  did,  in  fact,  send 
another  note  to  his  house  address,  asking  him 
to  see  them  before  their  departure;  but  John 
had  considered  himself  fortunate  in  getting  the 
house  off  his  hands  to  a  tenant  who  would  as 
sume  the  lease  if  given  possession  at  once,  and 
had  gone  into  the  modest  apartment  which  he 
occupied  during  the  rest  of  his  life  in  the  city, 
and  so  the  second  communication  failed  to  reach 
him.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well.  Some  weeks  later 
he  walked  up  to  the  Carlings'  house  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  and  saw  that  it  was  closed,  as  he  had 
expected.  By  an  impulse  which  was  not  part  of 
his  original  intention — which  was,  indeed,  pretty 
nearly  aimless — he  was  moved  to  ring  the  door 
bell;  but  the  maid,  a  stranger  to  him,  who 
opened  the  door  could  tell  him  nothing  of  the 
family's  whereabouts,  and  Mr.  Betts  (the  house 
man  in  charge)  was  "  hout."  So  John  retraced 
his  steps  with  a  feeling  of  disappointment  wholly 
disproportionate  to  his  hopes  or  expectations  so 
far  as  he  had  denned  them  to  himself,  and  never 
went  back  again. 

He  has  never  had  much  to  say  of  the  months 
that  followed. 

It  came  to  be  the  last  of  October.  An  errand 
from  the  office  had  sent  him  to  General  Wolsey, 
of  the  Mutual  Trust  Company,  of  whom  men- 


pg  DAVID   HARUM. 

tion  has  been  made  by  David  Harum.  The  gen 
eral  was  an  old  friend  of  the  elder  Lenox,  and 
knew  John  well  and  kindly.  When  the  latter 
had  discharged  his  errand  and  was  about  to  go, 
the  general  said :  "  Wait  a  minute.  Are  you  in 
a  hurry?  If  not,  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  you." 

"  Not  specially,"  said  John. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  the  general,  pointing  to  a 
chair.  "  What  are  your  plans?  I  see  you  are 
still  in  the  Careys'  office,  but  from  what  you  told 
me  last  summer  I  conclude  that  you  are  there 
because  you  have  not  found  anything  more  sat 
isfactory." 

"  That  is  the  case,  sir,"  John  replied.  "  I 
can't  be  idle,  but  I  don't  see  how  I  can  keep  on 
as  I  am  going  now,  and  I  have  been  trying  for 
months  to  find  something  by  which  I  can  earn 
a  living.  I  am  afraid,"  he  added,  "  that  it  will 
be  a  longer  time  than  I  can  afford  to  wait  before 
I  shall  be  able  to  do  that  out  of  the  law." 

"  If  you  don't  mind  my  asking,"  said  the 
general,  "what  are  your  resources?  I  don't 
think  you  told  me  more  than  to  give  me  to  un 
derstand  that  your  father's  affairs  were  at  a  pretty 
low  ebb.  Of  course,  I  do  not  wish  to  pry  into 
your  affairs " 

"Not  at  all,"  John  interposed;  "I  am  glad 
to  tell  you,  and  thank  you  for  your  interest.  I 
have  about  two  thousand  dollars,  and  there  is 
some  silver  and  odds  and  ends  of  things  stored. 
I  don't  know  what  their  value  might  be — not 
very  much,  I  fancy — and  there  were  a  lot  of 
mining  stocks  and  that  sort  of  thing  which  have 
no  value  so  far  as  I  can  find  out — no  available 
value,  at  any  rate.  There  is  also  a  tract  of  half- 


DAVID   HARUM.  99 

wild  land  somewhere  in  Pennsylvania.  There  is 
coal  on  it,  I  believe,  and  some  timber;  but  Melig, 
my  father's  manager,  told  me  that  all  the  large 
timber  had  been  cut.  So  far  as  available  value 
is  concerned,  the  property  is  about  as  much  of 
an  asset  as  the  mining  stock,  with  the  disad 
vantage  that  I  have  to  pay  taxes  on  it." 

"  H'm,"  said  the  general,  tapping  the  desk 
with  his  eyeglasses.  "  H'm — well,  I  should  think 
if  you  lived  very  economically  you  would  have 
about  enough  to  carry  you  through  till  you  can 
be  admitted,  provided  you  feel  that  the  law  is 
your  vocation,"  he  added,  looking  up. 

"  It  was  my  father's  idea,"  said  John,  "  and 
if  I  were  so  situated  that  I  could  go  on  with  it, 
I  would.  But  I  am  so  doubtful  with  regard  to 
my  aptitude  that  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  use 
up  what  little  capital  I  have,  and  some  years  of 
time,  on  a  doubtful  experiment,  and  so  I  have 
been  looking  for  something  else  to  do." 

"  Well,"  said  the  general,  "  if  you  were  very 
much  interested — that  is,  if  you  were  anxious  to 
proceed  with  your  studies — I  should  advise  you 
to  go  on,  and  at  a  pinch  I  should  be  willing  to 
help  you  out;  but,  feeling  as  you  do,  I  hardly 
know  what  to  advise.  I  was  thinking  of  you," 
he  went  on,  "  before  you  came  in,  and  was  in 
tending  to  send  for  you  to  come  in  to  see  me." 
He  took  a  letter  from  his  desk. 

"  I  got  this  yesterday,"  he  said.  "  It  is  from 
an  old  acquaintance  of  mine  by  the  name  of 
Harum,  who  lives  in  Homeville,  Freeland  Coun 
ty.  He  is  a  sort  of  a  banker  there,  and  has 
written  me  to  recommend  some  one  to  take  the 
place  of  his  manager  or  cashier  whom  he  is  send 
ing  away.  It's  rather  a  queer  move,  I  think,  but 


I00  DAVID   HARUM. 

then,"  said  the  general  with  a  smile,  "  Harum  is 
a  queer  customer  in  some  ways  of  his  own.  There 
is  his  letter.  Read  it  for  yourself." 

The  letter  stated  that  Mr.  Harum  had  had 
some  trouble  with  his  cashier  and  wished  to  re 
place  him,  and  that  he  would  prefer  some  one 
from  out  of  the  village  who  wouldn't  know  every 
man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  whole  region,  and 
"  blab  everything  right  and  left."  "  I  should 
want,"  wrote  Mr.  Harum,  "  to  have  the  young 
man  know  something  about  bookkeeping  and  so 
on,  but  I  should  not  insist  upon  his  having  been 
through  a  trainer's  hands.  In  fact,  I  would 
rather  break  him  in  myself,  and  if  he's  willing 
and  sound  and  no  vice,  I  can  get  him  into  shape. 
I  will  pay  a  thousand  to  start  on,  and  if  he  draws 
and  travels  all  right,  may  be  better  in  the  long 
run,"  etc.  John  handed  back  the  letter  with  a 
slight  smile,  which  was  reflected  in  the  face  of 
the  general.  "  What  do  you  think  of  it?  "  asked 
the  latter. 

"  I  should  think  it  might  be  very  charac 
teristic,"  remarked  John. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  general,  "  it  is,  to  an  extent. 
[You  see  he  writes  pretty  fair  English,  and  he  can, 
on  occasion,  talk  as  he  writes,  but  usually,  either 
from  habit  or  choice,  he  uses  the  most  unmiti 
gated  dialect.  But  what  I  meant  to  ask  you  was, 
what  do  you  think  of  the  proposal?" 

"  You  mean  as  an  opportunity  for  me? " 
asked  John. 

"  Yes,"  said  General  Wolsey,  "  I  thought  of 
you  at  once." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John.  "  What 
would  be  your  idea?" 

"  Well,"  was  the  reply,   "  I   am  inclined  to 


DAVID   HARUM,  IOI 

think  I  should  write  to  him  if  I  were  you,  and 
I  will  write  to  him  about  you  if  you  so  decide. 
You  have  had  some  office  experience,  you  told 
me — enough,  I  should  say,  for  a  foundation,  and 
I  don't  believe  that  Harum's  books  and  accounts 
are  very  complicated." 

John  did  not  speak,  and  the  general  went 
on:  "  Of  course,  it  will  be  a  great  change  from 
almost  everything  you  have  been  used  to,  and  I 
dare  say  that  you  may  find  the  life,  at  first  at 
least,  pretty  dull  and  irksome.  The  stipend  is 
not  very  large,  but  it  is  large  for  the  country, 
where  your  expenses  will  be  light.  In  fact,  I'm 
rather  surprised  at  his  offering  so  much.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  a  living  for  the  present,  and  may  lead 
to  something  better.  The  place  is  a  growing 
one,  and,  more  than  that,  Harum  is  well  off,  and 
keeps  more  irons  in  the  fire  than  one,  and  if  you 
get  on  with  him  you  may  do  well." 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  mind  the  change  so 
much,"  said  John,  rather  sadly.  "  My  present 
life  is  so  different  in  almost  every  way  from  what 
it  used  to  be,  and  I  think  I  feel  it  in  New  York 
more  even  than  I  might  in  a  country  village;  but 
the  venture  seems  a  little  like  burning  my 
bridges." 

"  Well,"  replied  the  general,  "  if  the  experi 
ment  should  turn  out  a  failure  for  any  reason, 
you  won't  be  very  much  more  at  a  loss  than  at 
present,  it  seems  to  me,  and,  of  course,  I  will  do 
anything  I  can  should  you  wish  me  to  be  still 
on  the  lookout  for  you  here." 

"  You  are  exceedingly  kind,  sir,"  said  John 
earnestly,  and  then  was  silent  for  a  moment  or 
two.  "  I  will  make  the  venture,"  he  said  at 
length,  "  and  thank  you  very  much." 


I02  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  You  are  under  no  special  obligations  to  the 
Careys,  are  you?"  asked  the  general. 

""No,  I  think  not,"  said  John  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  fancy  that  their  business  will  go  on  without 
me,  after  a  fashion,"  and  he  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AND  so  it  came  about  that  certain  letters 
were  written  as  mentioned  in  a  previous  chap 
ter,  and  in  the  evening  of  a  dripping  day  early 
in  November  John  Lenox  found  himself,  after  a 
nine  hours*  journey,  the  only  traveler  who 
alighted  upon  the  platform  of  the  Homeville  sta 
tion,  which  was  near  the  end  of  a  small  lake  and 
about  a  mile  from  the  village.  As  he  stood  with 
his  bag  and  umbrella,  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  he 
was  accosted  by  a  short  and  stubby  individual 
with  very  black  eyes  and  hair  and  a  round  face, 
which  would  have  been  smooth  except  that  it 
had  not  been  shaved  for  a  day  or  two.  "  Coin*  t' 
the  village?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  that  is  my  intention,  but 
I  don't  see  any  way  of  getting  there." 

"  Carry  ye  over  fer  ten  cents,"  said  the  man. 
"  Carryall's  right  back  the  deepo.  Got  'ny  bag- 
gidge?" 

"Two  trunks,"  said  John. 

"That'll  make  it  thirty  cents,"  said  the  na 
tive.  "  Where's  your  checks?  All  right;  you  c'n 
jest  step  'round  an'  git  in.  Mine's  the  only  rig 
that  drew  over  to-night." 

It  was  a  long  clumsy  affair,  with  windows 
at  each  end  and  a  door  in  the  rear,  but  open  at 
the  sides  except  for  enamel  cloth  curtains,  which 

103 


IO4 


DAVID    HARUM. 


were  buttoned  to  the  supports  that  carried  a 
railed  roof  extending  as  far  forward  as  the  dash 
board.  The  driver's  seat  was  on  a  level  with 
those  inside.  John  took  a  seat  by  one  of  the 
front  windows,  which  was  open"  but  protected 
by  the  roof. 

His  luggage  having  been  put  on  board,  they 
began  the  journey  at  a  walk,  the  first  part  of  the 
road  being  rough  and  swampy  in  places,  and 
undergoing  at  intervals  the  sort  of  repairs  which 
often  prevails  in  rural  regions — namely,  the  de 
posit  of  a  quantity  of  broken  stone,  which  is  left 
to  be  worn  smooth  by  passing  vehicles,  and  is 
for  the  most  part  carefully  avoided  by  such  when 
ever  the  roadway  is  broad  enough  to  drive  round 
the  improvement.  But  the  worst  of  the  way 
having  been  accomplished,  the  driver  took  op 
portunity,  speaking  sideways  over  his  shoulder, 
to  allay  the  curiosity  which  burned  within  him, 
"  Guess  I  never  seen  you  before."  John  was  tired 
and  hungry,  and  generally  low  in  his  mind. 

"  Very  likely  not,"  was  his  answer.  Mr. 
Robinson  instantly  arrived  at  the  determination 
that  the  stranger  was  "  stuck  up,"  but  was  in  no 
degree  cast  down  thereby. 

"  I  heard  Chet  Timson  tellin'  that  the'  was 
a  feller  comin'  f'm  N'York  to  work  in  Dave 
Harum's  bank.  Guess  you're  him,  ain't  ye?" 

No  answer  this  time:  theory  confirmed. 

"  My  name's  Robinson,"  imparted  that  indi 
vidual.  "  I  run  the  prince'ple  liv'ry  to  Home- 
ville." 

"  Ah !  "  responded  the  passenger. 

"What  d'you  say  your  name  was?"  asked 
Mr.  Robinson,  after  he  had  steered  his  team 
around  one  of  the  monuments  to  public  spirit. 


DAVID   HARUM.  IO$ 

"  It's  Lenox,"  said  John,  thinking  he  might 
concede  something  to  such  deserving  persever 
ance,  "  but  I  don't  remember  mentioning  it." 

"  Now  I  think  on't,  I  guess  you  didn't,"  ad 
mitted  Mr.  Robinson.  "  Don't  think  I  ever 
knowed  anybody  of  the  name,"  he  remarked. 
"  Used  to  know  some  folks  name  o'  Lynch,  but 
they  couldn't  'a'  ben  no  relations  o'  your'n,  I 
guess."  This  conjecture  elicited  no  reply. 

"Git  up,  goll  darn  ye!"  he  exclaimed,  as 
one  of  the  horses  stumbled,  and  he  gave  it  a 
jerk  and  a  cut  of  the  whip.  "  Bought  that  hoss 
of  Dave  Harum,"  he  confided  to  his  passenger. 
"  Fact,  I  bought  both  on  'em  of  him,  an'  dum 
well  stuck  I  was,  too,"  he  added. 

"  You  know  Mr.  Harum,  then,"  said  John, 
with  a  glimmer  of  interest.  "  Does  he  deal  in 
horses?" 

"  Wa'al,  I  guess  I  make  eout  to  know  him," 
asserted  the  "  prince'ple  liv'ryman,"  "  an'  he'll  git 
up  'n  the  middle  o'  the  night  any  time  to  git  the 
best  of  a  hoss  trade.  Be  you  goin'  to  work  fer 
him?"  he  asked,  encouraged  to  press  the  ques 
tion.  "Coin'  to  take  Timson's  place?" 

"  Really,"  said  John,  in  a  tone  which  ad 
vanced  Mr.  Robinson's  opinion  to  a  rooted 
conviction,  "  I  have  never  heard  of  Mr.  Tim- 
son." 

"  He's  the  feller  that  Dave's  lettin'  go,"  ex 
plained  Mr.  Robinson.  "  He's  ben  in  the  bank 
a  matter  o'  five  or  six  year,  but  Dave  got  down 
on  him  fer  some  little  thing  or  other,  an'  he's  got 
his  walkin'  papers.  He  says  to  me,  says  he,  '  If 
any  feller  thinks  he  c'n  come  up  here  f'm  N'York 
or  anywheres  else,'  he  says,  *  an'  do  Dave  Ha- 
rum's  work  to  suit  him,  he'll  find  he's  bit  off  a 
8 


DAVID   HARUM. 


dum  sight  more'n  he  c'n  chaw.  He'd  better 
keep  his  gripsack  packed  the  hull  time/  Chet 
says." 

"  I  thought  I'd  sock  it  to  the  cuss  a  little," 
remarked  Mr.  Robinson  in  recounting  the  con 
versation  subsequently;  and,  in  truth,  it  was  not 
elevating  to  the  spirits  of  our  friend,  who  found 
himself  speculating  whether  or  no  Timson  might 
not  be  right. 

"Where  you  goin'  to  put  up?"  asked  Mr. 
Robinson  after  an  interval,  having  failed  to  draw 
out  any  response  to  his  last  effort. 

"  Is  there  more  than  one  hotel?"  inquired  the 
passenger. 

"The's  the  Eagle,  an'  the  Lake  House,  an* 
Smith's  Hotel,"  replied  Jehu. 

"Which  would  you  recommend?"  asked  John. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Robinson,  "  I  don't  gen'ally 
praise  up  one  more'n  another.  You  see,  I  have 
more  or  less  dealin'  with  all  on  'em." 

"  That's  very  diplomatic  of  you,  I'm  sure," 
remarked  John,  not  at  all  diplomatically.  *'  I 
think  I  will  try  the  Eagle." 

Mr.  Robinson,  in  his  account  of  the  conver 
sation,  said  in  confidence  —  not  wishing  to  be 
openly  invidious  —  that  "  he  was  dum'd  if  he 
wa'n't  almost  sorry  he  hadn't  recommended  the 
Lake  House." 

It  may  be  inferred  from  the  foregoing  that 
the  first  impression  which  our  friend  made  on  his 
arrival  was  not  wholly  in  his  favor,  and  Mr.  Rob 
inson's  conviction  that  he  was  "  stuck  up,"  and 
a  person  bound  to  get  himself  "  gen'ally  dis 
liked,"  was  elevated  to  an  article  of  faith,  by  his 
retiring  to  the  rear  of  the  vehicle,  and  quite  out  of 
ordinary  range.  But  they  were  nearly  at  their 


DAVID   HARUM. 


107 


journey's  end,  and  presently  the  carryall  drew 
up  at  the  Eagle  Hotel. 

It  was  a  frame  building  of  three  stories,  with 
a  covered  veranda  running  the  length  of  the 
front,  from  which  two  doors  gave  entrance — 
one  to  the  main  hall,  the  other  to  the  office 
and  bar  combined.  This  was  rather  a  large 
room,  and  was  also  to  be  entered  from  the  main 
hall. 

John's  luggage  was  deposited,  Mr.  Robinson 
was  settled  with,  and  took  his  departure  without 
the  amenities  which  might  have  prevailed  under 
different  conditions,  and  the  new  arrival  made  his 
way  into  the  office. 

At  the  end  of  the  counter,  which  faced  the 
street,  was  a  glazed  case  containing  three  or 
four  partly  filled  boxes  of  forlorn-looking  cigars. 
At  the  other  end  stood  the  proprietor,  manager, 
clerk,  and  what-not  of  the  hostelry,  embodied  in 
the  single  person  of  Mr.  Amos  Elright,  engaged 
in  conversation  with  two  loungers  who  sat 
about  the  room  in  chairs  tipped  back  against 
the  wall. 

A  sketch  of  Mr.  Elright  would  have  depicted 
a  dull  "  complected  "  person  of  a  tousled  bald 
ness,  whose  dispirited  expression  of  countenance 
was  enhanced  by  a  chin  whisker.  His  shirt  and 
collar  gave  unmistakable  evidence  that  pyjamas 
or  other  night-gear  were  regarded  as  superflu 
ities,  and  his  most  conspicuous  garment  as  he 
appeared  behind  the  counter  was  a  cardigan 
jacket  of  a  frowsiness  beyond  compare.  A  greasy 
neck  scarf  was  embellished  with  a  gem  whose 
truthfulness  was  without  pretence.  The  atmos 
phere  of  the  room  was  accounted  for  by  a  re- 


Iog  DAVID    HARUM. 

mark  which  was  made  by  one  of  the  loungers 
as  John  came  in.  "  Say,  Ame,"  the  fellow 
drawled,  "  I  guess  the'  was  more  skunk  cab- 
bidge  'n  pie  plant  'n  usual  'n  that  last  lot  o'  cigars 
o'  your'n,  wa'n't  the'?"  to  which  insinuation 
"  Ame  "  was  spared  the  necessity  of  a  rejoinder 
by  our  friend's  advent. 

"  Wa'al,  guess  we  c'n  give  ye  a  room.  Oh, 
yes,  you  c'n  register  if  you  want  to.  Where  is 
the  dum  thing?  I  seen  it  last  week  somewhere. 
Oh,  yes,"  producing  a  thin  book  ruled  for  ac 
counts  from  under  the  counter,  "  we  don't  alwus 
use  it,"  he  remarked — which  was  obvious,  see 
ing  that  the  last  entry  was  a  month  old. 

John  concluded  that  it  was  a  useless  formal 
ity.  "  I  should  like  something  to  eat,"  he  said, 
"and  desire  to  go  to  my  room  while  it  is  being 
prepared;  and  can  you  send  my  luggage  up 
now?" 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Elright,  looking  at  the 
clock,  which  showed  the  hour  of  half-past  nine, 
and  rubbing  his  chin  perplexedly,  "  supper's 
ben  cleared  off  some  time  ago." 

"  I  don't  want  very  much,"  said  John;  "just 
a  bit  of  steak,  and  some  stewed  potatoes,  and  a 
couple  of  boiled  eggs,  and  some  coffee."  He 
might  have  heard  the  sound  of  a  slap  in  the  di 
rection  of  one  of  the  sitters. 

"  I'm  'fraid  I  can't  'commodate  ye  fur's  the 
steak  an'  things  goes,"  confessed  the  landlord. 
"  We  don't  do  much  cookin'  after  dinner,  an'  I 
reckon  the  fire's  out  anyway.  P'r'aps,"  he  added 
doubtfully,  "  I  c'd  hunt  ye  up  a  piece  o'  pie  'n 
some  doughnuts,  or  somethin'  like  that." 

He  took  a  key,  to  which  was  attached  a  huge 
brass  tag  with  serrated  edges,  from  a  hook  on  a 


DAVID   HARUM.  109 

board  behind  the  bar — on  which  were  suspended 
a  number  of  the  like — lighted  a  small  kerosene 
lamp,  carrying  a  single  wick,  and,  shuffling  out 
from  behind  the  counter,  said,  "  Say,  Bill,  can't 
you  an'  Dick  carry  the  gentleman's  trunks  up  to 
'thirteen?'"  and,  as  they  assented,  he  gave  the 
lamp  and  key  to  one  of  them  and  left  the  room. 
•The  two  men  took  a  trunk  at  either  end  and 
mounted  the  stairs,  John  following,  and  when 
the  second  one  came  up  he  put  his  fingers  into 
his  waistcoat  pocket  suggestively. 

"  No,"  said  the  one  addressed  as  Dick,  "  that's 
all  right.  We  done  it  to  oblige  Ame." 

"  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  though," 
said  John. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  remarked  Dick  as  they 
turned  away. 

John  surveyed  the  apartment.  There  were 
two  small-paned  windows  overlooking  the  street, 
curtained  with  bright  "  Turkey-red "  cotton; 
near  to  one  of  them  a  small  wood  stove  and  a 
wood  box,  containing  some  odds  and  ends  of 
sticks  and  bits  of  bark;  a  small  chest  of  drawers, 
serving  as  a  washstand;  a  malicious  little  look 
ing-glass;  a  basin  and  ewer,  holding  about  two 
quarts;  an  earthenware  mug  and  soap-dish,  the 
latter  containing  a  thin  bit  of  red  translucent 
soap  scented  with  sassafras;  an  ordinary  wooden 
chair  and  a  rocking-chair  with  rockers  of  di 
vergent  aims;  a  yellow  wooden  bedstead  fur 
nished  with  a  mattress  of  "  excelsior "  (calcu 
lated  to  induce  early  rising),  a  dingy  white 
spread,  a  gray  blanket  of  coarse  wool,  a  pair  of 
cotton  sheets  which  had  too  obviously  done  duty 
since  passing  through  the  hands  of  the  laun 
dress,  and  a  pair  of  flabby  little  pillows  in  the 


IIO  DAVID   HARUM. 

same  state,  in  respect  to  their  cases,  as  the  sheets. 
On  the  floor  was  a  much  used  and  faded  in 
grain  carpet,  in  one  place  worn  through  by  the 
edge  of  a  loose  board.  A  narrow  strip  of  un- 
painted  pine  nailed  to  the  wall  carried  six  or 
seven  wooden  pegs  to  serve  as  wardrobe.  Two 
diminutive  towels  with  red  borders  hung  on  the 
rail  of  the  washstand,  and  a  battered  tin  slop  jar, 
minus  a  cover,  completed  the  inventory. 

"Heavens,  what  a  hole!"  exclaimed  John, 
and  as  he  performed  his  ablutions  (not  with  the 
sassafras  soap)  he  promised  himself  a  speedy 
flitting.  There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
his  host  appeared  to  announce  that  his  "  tea " 
was  ready,  and  to  conduct  him  to  the  dining- 
room — a  good-sized  apartment,  but  narrow,  with 
a  long  table  running  near  the  center  lengthwise, 
covered  with  a  cloth  which  bore  the  marks  of 
many  a  fray.  Another  table  of  like  dimensions, 
but  bare,  was  shoved  up  against  the  wall.  Mr. 
Elright's  ravagement  of  the  larder  had  resulted 
in  a  triangle  of  cadaverous  apple  pie,  three 
doughnuts,  some  chunks  of  soft  white  cheese, 
and  a  plate  of  what  are  known  as  oyster  crackers. 

"  I  couldn't  git  ye  no  tea/'  he  said.  "  The 
hired  girls  both  gone  out,  an'  my  wife's  gone  to 
bed,  an'  the'  wa'n't  no  fire  anyway." 

"  I  suppose  I  could  have  some  beer,"  sug 
gested  John,  looking  dubiously  at  the  ban 
quet. 

"  We  don't  keep  no  ale,"  said  the  proprietor 
of  the  Eagle,  "  an'  I  guess  we're  out  o'  lawger. 
I  ben  intendin'  to  git  some  more,"  he  added. 

"A  glass  of  milk?"  proposed  the  guest,  but 
without  confidence. 

"  Milkman  didn't  come  to-night,"  said   Mr. 


DAVID   HARUM.  Ill 

Elright,  shuffling  off  in  his  carpet  slippers, 
worn  out  in  spirit  by  the  importunities  of  the 
stranger.  There  was  water  on  the  table,  for  it 
had  been  left  there  from  supper  time.  John  man 
aged  to  consume  a  doughnut  and  some  crack 
ers  and  cheese,  and  then  went  to  his  room,  car 
rying  the  water  pitcher  with  him,  and,  after  a 
cigarette  or  two  and  a  small  potation  from  his 
flask,  to  bed.  Before  retiring,  however,  he 
stripped  the  bed  with  the  intention  of  turning 
the  sheets,  but  upon  inspection  thought  better 
of  it,  and  concluded  to  leave  them  as  they  were. 
So  passed  his  first  night  in  Homeville,  and,  as  he 
fondly  promised  himself,  his  last  at  the  Eagle 
Hotel. 

When  Bill  and  Dick  returned  to  the  office 
after  "  obligin'  Ame,"  they  stepped  with  one  ac 
cord  to  the  counter  and  looked  at  the  register. 
"  Why,  darn  it,"  exclaimed  Bill,  "  he  didn't  sign 
his  name,  after  all." 

"No,"  said  Dick,  "but  I  c'n  give  a  putty 
near  guess  who  he  is,  all  the  same." 

"Some  drummer?"  suggested  Bill. 

"  Naw,"  said  Richard  scornfully.  "  What  'd 
a  drummer  be  doin'  here  this  time  o'  year? 
That's  the  feller  that's  ousted  Chet  Timson,  an' 
I'll  bet  ye  the  drinks  on't.  Name's  Linx  or 
Lenx,  or  somethin'  like  that.  Dave  told  me." 

"So  that's  the  feller,  is  it?"  said  Bill.  "I 
guess  he  won't  stay  'round  here  long.  I  guess 
you'll  find  he's  a  little  too  toney  fer  these  parts, 
an'  in  pertic'ler  fer  Dave  Harum.  Dave'll  make 
him  feel  'bout  as  comf'table  as  a  rooster  in  a 
pond.  Lord,"  he  exclaimed,  slapping  his  leg 
with  a  guffaw,  "  'd  you  notice  Ame's  face  when 
he  said  he  didn't  want  much  fer  supper,  only 


112  DAVID    HARUM. 

beefsteak,  an'  eggs,  an'  tea,  an'  coffee,  an*  a  few 
little  things  like  that?  I  thought  I'd  split." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  laughing,  "  I  guess  the* 
ain't  nothin'  the  matter  with  Ame's  heart,  or  he'd 
'a'  fell  down  dead. — Hullo,  Ame!"  he  said  when 
the  gentleman  in  question  came  back  after  min 
istering  to  his  guest,  "  got  the  Prince  o'  Wales 
fixed  up  all  right?  Did  ye  cut  that  pickled  el'- 
phant  that  come  last  week?"  , 

"Huh!"  grunted  Amos,  whose  sensibilities 
had  been  wounded  by  the  events  of  the  even 
ing,  "  I  didn't  cut  no  el'phant  ner  no  cow,  ner 
rob  no  hen  roost  neither,  but  I  guess  he  won't 
starve  'fore  mornin',"  and  with  that  he  proceeded 
to  fill  up  the  stove  and  shut  the  dampers. 

"  That  means  '  git,'  I  reckon,"  remarked  Bill 
as  he  watched  the  operation. 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Elright,  "if  you  fellers 
think  you've  spent  enough  time  droolin'  'round 
here  swapping  lies,  I  think  Til  go  to  bed,"  which 
inhospitable  and  injurious  remark  was  by  no 
means  taken  in  bad  part,  for  Dick  said,  with  a 
laugh : 

u  Well,  Ame,  if  you'll  let  me  run  my  face  for 
'em,  Bill  'n  I'll  take  a  little  somethin'  for  the  good 
o'  the  house  before  we  shed  the  partin'  tear." 
This  proposition  was  not  declined  by  Mr.  El- 
right,  but  he  felt  bound  on  business  principles 
not  to  yield  with  too  great  a  show  of  readiness. 

"  Wa'al,  I  don't  mind  for  this  once,"  he  said, 
going  behind  the  bar  and  setting  out  a  bottle 
and  glasses,  "  but  I've  gen'ally  noticed  that  it's 
a  damn  sight  easier  to  git  somethin'  into  you  fel 
lers  'n  't  is  to  git  anythin'  out  of  ye." 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

THE  next  morning  at  nine  o'clock  John  pre- 
sented  himself  at  Mr.  Harum's  banking  office, 
which  occupied  the  first  floor  of  a  brick  build 
ing  some  twenty  or  twenty-five  feet  in  width. 
Besides  the  entrance  to  the  bank,  there  was  a 
door  at  the  south  corner  opening  upon  a  stair 
way  leading  to  a  suite  of  two  rooms  on  the  sec 
ond  floor. 

The  banking  office  consisted  of  two  rooms — 
one  in  front,  containing  the  desks  and  counters, 
and  what  may  be  designated  as  the  "  parlor  * 
(as  used  to  be  the  case  in  the  provincial  towns) 
in  the  rear,  in  which  were  Mr.  Harum's  private 
desk,  a  safe  of  medium  size,  the  necessary  assort 
ment  of  chairs,  and  a  lounge.  There  was  also 
a  large  Franklin  stove. 

The  parlor  was  separated  from  the  front 
room  by  a  partition,  in  which  were  two  doors, 
one  leading  into  the  inclosed  space  behind  the 
desks  and  counters,  and  the  other  into  the  pas 
sageway  formed  by  the  north  wall  and  a  length 
of  high  desk,  topped  by  a  railing.  The  teller's 
or  cashier's  counter  faced  the  street  opposite  the 
entrance  door.  At  the  left  of  this  counter 
(viewed  from  the  front)  was  a  high-standing 
desk,  with  a  rail.  At  the  right  was  a  glass-in 
closed  space  of  counter  of  the  same  height  as  that 
9  "3 


114 


DAVID   HARUM. 


portion  which  was  open,  across  which  latter  the 
business  of  paying  and  receiving  was  conducted. 

As  John  entered  he  saw  standing  behind 
this  open  counter,  framed,  as  it  were,  between 
the  desk  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  glass  in- 
closure  on  the  other,  a  person  whom  he  con 
jectured  to  be  the  "  Chet "  (short  for  Chester) 
Timson  of  whom  he  had  heard.  This  person 
nodded  in  response  to  our  friend's  "  Good  morn 
ing,"  and  anticipated  his  inquiry  by  saying: 

"  You  lookin'  for  Dave?" 

"  I  am  looking  for  Mr.  Harum,"  said  John. 
"Is  he  in  the  office?" 

"  He  hain't  come  in  yet,"  was  the  reply.  "  Up 
to  the  barn,  I  reckon,  but  he's  liable  to  come  in 
any  minute,  an'  you  c'n  step  into  the  back  room 
an'  wait  fer  him,"  indicating  the  direction  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand. 

Business  had  not  begun  to  be  engrossing, 
though  the  bank  was  open,  and  John  had  hardly 
seated  himself  when  Timson  came  into  the  back 
room  and,  taking  a  chair  where  he  could  see 
the  counter  in  the  front  office,  proceeded  to  in 
vestigate  the  stranger,  of  whose  identity  he  had 
not  the  smallest  doubt.  But  it  was  not  Mr.  Tim- 
son's  way  to  take  things  for  granted  in  silence, 
and  it  must  be  admitted  that  his  curiosity  in  this 
particular  case  was  not  without  warrant.  After 
a  scrutiny  of  John's  face  and  person,  which  was 
not  brief  enough  to  be  unnoticeable,  he  said, 
with  a  directness  which  left  nothing  in  that  line 
to  be  desired,  "  I  reckon  you're  the  new  man 
Dave's  ben  gettin'  up  from  the  city." 

"  I  came  up  yesterday,"  admitted  John. 

"  My  name's  Timson,"  said  Chet. 

"  Happy  to  meet  you,"  said  John,  rising  and 


DAVID   HARUM.  115 

putting  out  his  hand.  "  My  name  is  Lenox," 
and  they  shook  hands — that  is,  John  grasped  the 
ends  of  four  limp  fingers.  After  they  had  sub 
sided  into  their  seats,  Chet's  opaquely  bluish 
eyes  made  another  tour  of  inspection,  in  curiosity 
and  wonder. 

"  You  alwus  lived  in  the  city?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  It  has  always  been  my  home,"  was  the 
reply. 

"  What  put  it  in  your  head  to  come  up  here?  " 
with  another  stare. 

"  It  was  at  Mr.  Harum's  suggestion,"  replied 
John,  not  with  perfect  candor;  but  he  was  not 
minded  to  be  drawn  out  too  far. 

"D'ye  know  Dave?" 

"  I  have  never  met  him."  Mr.  Timson  looked 
more  puzzled  than  ever. 

"  Ever  ben  in  the  bankin'  bus'nis?" 

"  I  have  had  some  experience  of  such  ac 
counts  in  a  general  way." 

"Ever  keep  books?" 

"  Only  as  I  have  told  you,"  said  John,  smil 
ing  at  the  little  man. 

"  Got  any  idee  what  you'll  have  to  do  up 
here?  "  asked  Chet. 

"  Only  in  a  general  way." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Timson,  "I  c'n  tell  ye; 
an',  what's  more,  I  c'n  tell  ye,  young  man,  't  you 
hain't  no  idee  of  what  you're  undertaking  an'  ef 
you  don't  wish  you  was  back  in  New  York  'fore 
you  git  through  I  ain't  no  guesser." 

"  That  is  possible,"  said  John  readily,  recall 
ing  his  night  and  his  breakfast  that  morning. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  other.  "  Yes,  sir;  if  you 
do  what  I've  had  to  do,  you'll  do  the  hull  darned 
thing,  an'  nobody  to  help  you  but  Pele  Hopkins, 


Ir6  DAVID   HARUM. 

who  don't  count  fer  a  row  o'  crooked  pins.  As 
fer's  Dave's  concerned,"  asserted  the  speaker 
with  a  wave  of  his  hands,  "he  don't  know  no 
more  about  bankin'  'n  a  cat.  He  couldn't  count 
a  thousan'  dollars  in  an  hour,  an',  as  for  addin' 
up  a  row  o'  figures,  he  couldn't  git  it  twice  alike, 
I  don't  believe,  if  he  was  to  be  hung  for't." 

"  He  must  understand  the  meaning  of  his 
own  books  and  accounts,  I  shoved  think/'  -e- 
marked  John. 

"  Oh,"  said  Chet  scornfully,  "  anybody  c'd 
do  that.  That's  easy  'nough;  but  as  fur  's  the 
real  bus'nis  is  concerned,  he  don't  have  nothin' 
to  do  with  it.  It's  all  ben  left  to  me :  chargin'  an' 
creditin',  postin',  individule  ledger,  gen'ral  ledg 
er,  bill-book,  discount  register,  tickler,  for'n 
register,  checkin'  off  the  N'York  accounts,  draw- 
in'  off  statemunts  f'm  the  ledgers  an'  bill-book, 
writin'  letters — why,  the'  ain't  an  hour  'n  the  day 
in  bus'nis  hours  some  days  that  the's  an  hour  't 
I  ain't  busy  'bout  somethin'.  No,  sir,"  continued 
Chet,  "  Dave  don't  give  himself  no  trouble  about 
the  bus'nis.  All  he  does  is  to  look  after  lendin' 
the  money,  an'  seein'  that  it  gits  paid  when  the 
time  comes,  an'  keep  track  of  how  much  money 
the'  is  here  an'  in  N'York,  an'  what  notes  is  corn- 
in'  due — an'  a  few  things  like  that,  that  don't  put 
pen  to  paper,  ner  take  an  hour  of  his  time.  Why, 
a  man'll  come  in  an'  want  to  git  a  note  done,  an' 
it'll  be  '  All  right,'  or,  '  Can't  spare  the  money 
to-day,'  all  in  a  minute.  He  don't  give  it  no 
thought  at  all,  an'  he  ain't  'round  here  half  the 
time.  Now,"  said  Chet,  "  when  I  work  fer  a 
man  I  like  to  have  him  'round  so  't  I  c'n  say  to 
him:  'Shall  I  do  it  so?  or  shall  I  do  it  so?  shall 
I  ?  or  sha'n't  I  ? '  an'  then  when  I  make  a  mis- 


DAVID   HARUM. 

take — 's  anybody's  liable  to — he's  as  much  to 
blame  's  I  be." 

"  I  suppose,  then,"  said  John,  "  that  you  must 
have  to  keep  Mr.  Harum's  private  accounts  also, 
seeing  that  he  knows  so  little  of  details.  I  have 
been  told  that  he  is  interested  in  a  good  many 
matters  besides  this  business." 

"  Wa'al,"  replied  Timson,  somewhat  discon 
certed,  "  I  suppose  he  must  keep  'em  himself  in 
some  kind  of  a  fashion,  an'  I  don't  know  a  thing 
about  any  outside  matters  of  his'n,  though  I  sus 
picion  he  has  got  quite  a  few.  He's  got  some 
books  in  that  safe "  (pointing  with  his  ringer) 
"  an'  he's  got  a  safe  in  the  vault,  but  if  you'll 
believe  me " — and  the  speaker  looked  as  if  he 
hardly  expected  it — "  I  hain't  never  so  much  as 
seen  the  inside  of  either  one  on  'em.  No,  sir," 
he  declared,  "  I  hain't  no  more  idee  of  what's  in 
them  safes  'n  you  have.  He's  close,  Dave  Harum 
is,"  said  Chet  with  a  convincing  motion  of  the 
head ;  "  on  the  hull,  the  clostest  man  I  ever  see. 
I  believe,"  he  averred,  "  that  if  he  was  to  lay  out 
to  keep  it  shut  that  lightnin'  might  strike  him 
square  in  the  mouth  an'  it  wouldn't  go  in  an 
eighth  of  an  inch.  An'  yet,"  he  added,  "  he  c'n 
talk  by  the  rod  when  he  takes  a  notion." 

"  Must  be  a  difficult  person  to  get  on  with," 
commented  John  dryly. 

"  I  couldn't  stan'  it  no  longer,"  declared  Mr. 
Timson  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  endured  to 
the  end  of  virtue,  "  an'  I  says  to  him  the  other 
day,  '  Wa'al,'  I  says,  '  if  I  can't  suit  ye,  mebbe 
you'd  better  suit  yourself/  " 

"Ah!"  said  John  politely,  seeing  that  some 
response  was  expected  of  him;  "and  what  did 
he  say  to  that?  " 


DAVID   HARUM. 

"  He  ast  me,"  replied  Chet,  "  if  I  meant  by 
that  to  throw  up  the  situation.  '  Wa'al,'  I  says 
*  I'm  sick  enough  to  throw  up  most  anythin'/  I 
says,  '  along  with  bein'  found  fault  with  fer 
nothinV  " 

"And  then?"  queried  John,  who  had  re 
ceived  the  impression  that  the  motion  to  adjourn 
had  come  from  the  other  side  of  the  house. 

"  Wa'al,"  replied  Chet,  not  quite  so  confi 
dently,  "  he  said  somethin'  about  my  requirin'  a 
larger  spear  of  action,  an'  that  he  thought  I'd  do 
better  on  a  mile  track — some  o'  his  hoss  talk. 
That's  another  thing,"  said  Timson,  changing 
the  subject.  "  He's  all  fer  hosses.  He'd  sooner 
make  a  ten-dollar  note  on  a  hoss  trade  than  a 
hunderd  right  here  'n  this  office.  Many's  the 
time  right  in  bus'nis  hours,  when  I've  wanted  to 
ask  him  how  he  wanted  somethin'  done,  he'd  be 
busy  talkin'  hoss,  an'  wouldn't  pay  no  attention 
to  me  more'n  's  if  I  wa'n't  there." 

"  I  am  glad  to  feel,"  said  John,  "  that  you  can 
not  possibly  have  any  unpleasant  feeling  toward 
me,  seeing  that  you  resigned  as  you  did." 

"  Cert'nly  not,  cert'nly  not,"  declared  Tim- 
son,  a  little  uneasily.  "  If  it  hadn't  'a'  ben  you,  it 
would  'a'  had  to  ben  somebody  else,  an'  now  I 

seen  you  an'  had  a  talk  with  you Wa'al,  I 

guess  I  better  git  back  into  the  other  room. 
Dave's  liable  to  come  in  any  minute.  But,"  he  said 
in  parting,  "  I  will  give  ye  piece  of  advice:  You 
keep  enough  laid  by  to  pay  your  gettin'  back  to 
N'York.  You  may  want  it  in  a  hurry,"  and  with 
this  parting  shot  the  rejected  one  took  his  leave. 

The  bank  parlor  was  lighted  by  a  window 
and  a  glazed  door  in  the  rear  wall,  and  another 


DAVID   HARUM.  1 19 

window  on  the  south  side.  Mr.  Harum's  desk 
was  by  the  rear,  or  west,  window,  which  gave 
view  of  his  house,  standing  some  hundred  feet 
back  from  the  street.  The  south,  or  side,  win 
dow  afforded  a  view  of  his  front  yard  and  that 
of  an  adjoining  dwelling,  beyond  which  rose 
the  wall  of  a  mercantile  block.  Business  was  en 
croaching  upon  David's  domain.  Our  friend 
stood  looking  out  of  the  south  window.  To  the 
left  a  bit  of  Main  Street  was  visible,  and  the 
naked  branches  of  the  elms  and  maples  with 
which  it  was  bordered  were  waving  defiantly  at 
their  rivals  over  the  way,  incited  thereto  by  a 
northwest  wind. 

We  invariably  form  a  mental  picture  of  every 
unknown  person  of  whom  we  think  at  all.  It 
may  be  so  faint  that  we  are  unconscious  of  it  at 
the  time,  or  so  vivid  that  it  is  always  recalled 
until  dissipated  by  seeing  the  person  himself,  or 
his  likeness.  But  that  we  do  so  make  a  pic 
ture  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  upon  being  con 
fronted  by  the  real  features  of  the  person  in  ques 
tion  we  always  experience  a  certain  amount  of 
surprise,  even  when  we  have  not  been  conscious 
of  a  different  conception  of  him. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  however,  there  was  no  ques 
tion  in  John  Lenox's  mind  as  to  the  identity  of 
the  person  who  at  last  came  briskly  into  the  back 
office  and  interrupted  his  meditations.  Rather 
under  the  middle  height,  he  was  broad-shoul 
dered  and  deep-chested,  with  a  clean-shaven,  red 
face,  with — not  a  mole — but  a  slight  protuber 
ance  the  size  of  half  a  large  pea  on  the  line  from 
the  nostril  to  the  corner  of  the  mouth;  bald  over 
the  crown  and  to  a  line  a  couple  of  inches  above 
the  ear,  below  that  thick  and  somewhat  bushy 


12Q  DAVID   HARUM. 

hair  of  yellowish  red,  showing  a  mingling  of 
gray;  small  but  very  blue  eyes;  a  thick  nose,  of 
no  classifiable  shape,  and  a  large  mouth  with  the 
lips  so  pressed  together  as  to  produce  a  slightly 
downward  and  yet  rather  humorous  curve  at  the 
corners.  He  was  dressed  in  a  sack  coat  of  dark 
"  pepper-and-salt,"  with  waistcoat  and  trousers  to 
match.  A  somewhat  old-fashioned  standing  col 
lar,  flaring  away  from  the  throat,  was  encircled 
by  a  red  cravat,  tied  in  a  bow  under  his  chin. 
A  diamond  stud  of  perhaps  two  carats  showed 
in  the  triangle  of  spotless  shirt  front,  and  on  his 
head  was  a  cloth  cap  with  ear  lappets.  He  ac 
costed  our  friend  with,  "  I  reckon  you  must  be 
Mr.  Lenox.  How  are  you?  I'm  glad  to  see 
you/'  tugging  off  a  thick  buckskin  glove,  and 
putting  out  a  plump  but  muscular  hand. 

John  thanked  him  as  they  shook  hands,  and 
"  hoped  he  was  well." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  "I'm  improvin' 
slowly.  I've  got  so  'st  I  c'n  set  up  long  enough 
to  have  my  bed  made.  Come  last  night,  I 
s'pose?  Anybody  to  the  deepo  to  bring  ye  over? 
This  time  o'  year  once  'n  a  while  the'  don't  no 
body  go  over  for  passengers." 

John  said  that  he  had  had  no  trouble.  A 
man  by  the  name  of  Robinson  had  brought  him 
and  his  luggage. 

"  E-up!  "  said  David  with  a  nod,  backing  up 
to  the  fire  which  was  burning  in  the  grate  of  the 
Franklin  stove,  "  '  Dug '  Robinson.  'D  he  do 
the  p'lite  thing  in  the  matter  of  questions  an'  gen- 
'ral  conversation?"  he  asked  with  a  grin.  John 
laughed  in  reply  to  this  question. 

"  Where  'd  you  put  up?  "  asked  David.  John 
said  that  he  passed  the  night  at  the  Eagle  Hotel. 


DAVID    HARUM.  I2i 

Mr.  Harnm  had  seen  Dick  Larrabee  that  morn 
ing  and  heard  what  he  had  to  say  of  our  friend's 
reception,  but  he  liked  to  get  his  information 
from  original  sources. 

"  Make  ye  putty  comf  table?  "  he  asked,  turn 
ing  to  eject  a  mouthful  into  the  fire. 

"  I  got  along  pretty  well  under  the  circum 
stances,"  said  John. 

Mr.  Harum  did  not  press  the  inquiry.  "How'd 
you  leave  the  gen'ral?"  he  inquired. 

"  He  seemed  to  be  well,"  replied  John,  "  and 
he  wished  to  be  kindly  remembered  to  you." 

"  Fine  man,  the  gen'ral,"  declared  David,  well 
pleased.  "  Fine  man  all  'round.  Word's  as  good 
as  his  bond.  Yes,  sir,  when  the  gen'ral  gives  his 
warrant,  I  don't  care  whether  I  see  the  critter  or 
not.  Know  him  much?" 

"  He  and  my  father  were  old  friends,  and  I 
have  known  him  a  good  many  years,"  replied 
John,  adding,  "  he  has  been  very  kind  and  friend 
ly  to  me." 

"  Set  down,  set  down,"  said  Mr.  Harum, 
pointing  to  a  chair.  Seating  himself,  he  took  off 
his  cap  and  dropped  it  with  his  gloves  on  the 
floor.  "  How  long  you  ben  here  in  the  office  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Perhaps  half  an  hour,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  meant  to  have  ben  here  when  you  come," 
said  the  banker,  "  but  I  got  hendered  about  a 
matter  of  a  hoss  I'm  looking  at.  I  guess  I'll 
shut  that  door,"  making  a  move  toward  the  one 
into  the  front  office. 

"  Allow  me,"  said  John,  getting  up  and  clos 
ing  it. 

"  May's  well  shut  the  other  one  while  you're 
about  it.  Thank  you,"  as  John  resumed  his  seat. 


122 


DAVID   HARUM. 


"  I  hain't  got  nothin'  very  private,  but  I'm  'fraid 
of  distractin'  Timson's  mind.  Did  he  int'duce 
himself?" 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  we  introduced  ourselves 
and  had  a  few  minutes  conversation." 

"  Gin  ye  his  hull  hist'ry  an'  a  few  relations 
throwed  in?" 

"  There  was  hardly  time  for  that,"  said  John, 
smiling. 

"  Rubbed  a  little  furn'ture  polish  into  my 
char'cter  an'  repitation?"  insinuated  Mr.  Harum. 

"  Most  of  our  talk  was  on  the  subject  of  his 
duties  and  responsibilities,"  was  John's  reply. 
("  Don't  cal'late  to  let  on  any  more'n  he  cal'lates 
to,"  thought  David  to  himself.) 

"  Allowed  he  run  the  hull  shebang,  didn't 
he?" 

"  He  seemed  to  have  a  pretty  large  idea  of 
what  was  required  of  one  in  his  place,"  admitted 
the  witness. 

"  Kind  o'  friendly,  was  he?  "  asked  David. 

"  Well,"  said  John,  "  after  we  had  talked  for 
a  while  I  said  to  him  that  I  was  glad  to  think 
that  he  could  have  no  unpleasant  feeling  toward 
me,  seeing  that  he  had  given  up  the  place  of  his 
own  preference,  and  he  assured  me  that  he  had 
none." 

David  turned  and  looked  at  John  for  an  in 
stant,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  The  younger 
man  returned  the  look  and  smiled  slightly. 
David  laughed  outright. 

"  I  guess  you've  seen  folks  before,"  he  re 
marked. 

"  I  have  never  met  any  one  exactly  like  Mr. 
Timson,  I  think,"  said  our  friend  with  a  slight 
laugh. 


DAVID   HARUM.  123 

"  Fortunitly  them  kind  is  rare,"  observed  Mr. 
Harum  dryly,  rising  and  going  to  his  desk,  from 
a  drawer  of  which  he  produced  a  couple  of  cigars, 
one  of  which  he  proffered  to  John,  who,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  during  the  next  half  hour 
regretted  that  he  was  a  smoker.  David  sat  for 
two  or  three  minutes  puffing  diligently,  and  then 
took  the  weed  out  of  his  mouth  and  looked  con 
templatively  at  it. 

"  How  do  you  like  that  cigar?  "  he  inquired. 

"  It  burns  very  nicely,"  said  the  victim.  Mr. 
Harum  emitted  a  cough  which  was  like  a  chuckle, 
or  a  chuckle  which  was  like  a  cough,  and  re 
lapsed  into  silence  again.  Presently  he  turned 
his  head,  looked  curiously  at  the  young  man  for 
a  moment,  and  then  turned  his  glance  again  to 
the  fire. 

"  I've  ben  wonderin'  some,"  he  said,  "  pertic- 
'lerly  since  I  see  you,  how  't  was  't  you  wanted 
to  come  up  here  to  Homeville.  Gen'l  Wolsey 
gin  his  warrant,  an'  so  I  reckon  you  hadn't  ben 
gettin'  into  no  scrape  nor  nothin',"  and  again  he 
looked  sharply  at  the  young  man  at  his  side. 

"  Did  the  general  say  nothing  of  my  af 
fairs?  "  the  latter  asked. 

"  No,"  replied  David,  "  all  't  he  said  was  in 
a  gen'ral  way  that  he'd  knowed  you  an'  your 
folks  a  good  while,  an'  he  thought  you'd  be  jest 
the  feller  I  was  lookin'  fer.  Mebbe  he  reckoned 
that  if  you  wanted  your  story  told,  you'd  ruther 
tell  it  yourself." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WHATEVER  might  have  been  John's  repug 
nance  to  making  a  confidant  of  the  man  whom 
he  had  known  but  for  half  an  hour,  he  acknowl 
edged  to  himself  that  the  other's  curiosity  was 
not  only  natural  but  proper.  He  could  not  but 
know  that  in  appearance  and  manner  he  was  in 
marked  contrast  with  those  whom  the  man  had 
so  far  seen.  He  divined  the  fact  that  his  coming 
from  a  great  city  to  settle  down  in  a  village  town 
would  furnish  matter  for  surprise  and  conjec 
ture,  and  felt  that  it  would  be  to  his  advantage 
with  the  man  who  was  to  be  his  employer  that  he 
should  be  perfectly  and  obviously  frank  upon  all 
matters  of  his  own  which  might  be  properly 
mentioned.  He  had  an  instinctive  feeling  that 
Harum  combined  acuteness  and  suspiciousness 
to  a  very  large  degree,  and  he  had  also  a 
feeling  that  the  old  man's  confidence,  once 
gained,  would  not  be  easily  shaken.  So  he  told 
his  hearer  so  much  of  his  history  as  he  thought 
pertinent,  and  David  listened  without  interrup 
tion  or  comment,  save  an  occasional  "  E-um'm." 

"  And  here  I  am,"  John  remarked  in  con 
clusion. 

u  Here  you  be,  fer  a  fact,"  said  David. 
"  Wa'al,  the's  worse  places  'n  Homeville — after 
you  git  used  to  it,"  he  added  in  qualification. 
124 


DAVID   HARUM.  125 

"  I  ben  back  here  a  matter  o'  thirteen  or  four 
teen  year  now,  an'  am  £  ettin'  to  feel  my  way 'round 
putty  well;  but  not  havin'  ben  in  these  parts  fer 
putty  nigh  thirty  year,  I  found  it  ruther  lonesome 
to  start  with,  an'  I  guess  if  it  hadn't  'a'  ben  fer 
Polly  I  wouldn't  'a'  stood  it.  But  up  to  the 
time  I  come  back  she  hadn't  never  ben  ten  mile 
away  f'm  here  in  her  hull  life,  an'  I  couldn't 
budge  her.  But  then,"  he  remarked,  "  while 
Homeville  aint  a  metrop'lis,  it's  some  a  diff'rent 
place  f'm  what  it  used  to  be — in  some  ways. 
Polly's  my  sister,"  he  added  by  way  of  expla 
nation. 

"  Well,"  said  John,  with  rather  a  rueful  laugh, 
"  if  it  has  taken  you  all  that  time  to  get  used  to 
it  the  outlook  for  me  is  not  very  encouraging, 
I'm  afraid." 

"  Wa'al,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum,  "  I'm  apt  to 
speak  in  par'bles  sometimes.  I  guess  you'll  git 
along  after  a  spell,  though  it  mayn't  set  fust 
rate  on  your  stomech  till  you  git  used  to  the 
diet.  "  Say,"  he  said  after  a  moment,  "  if  you'd 
had  a  couple  o'  thousan'  more,  do  you  think 
you'd  Y  stuck  to  the  law  bus'nis?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  John,  "  but 
I  am  inclined  to  think  not.  General  Wolsey 
told  me  that  if  I  were  very  anxious  to  go  on 
with  it  he  would  help  me,  but  after  what  I  told 
him  he  advised  me  to  write  to  you." 

"He  did,  did  he?" 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  and  after  what  I  had  gone 
through  I  was  not  altogether  sorry  to  come 
away." 

"Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Harum  thoughtfully,  "if 
I  was  to  lose  what  little  I've  got,  an'  had  to 
give  up  livin'  in  the  way  I  was  used  to,  an' 


I26  DAVID    HARUM. 

couldn't  even  keep  a  hoss,  I  c'n  allow  't  I  might 
be  willin'  fer  a  change  of  scene  to  make  a  fresh 
start  in.  Yes,  sir,  I  guess  I  would.  Wa'al," 
looking  at  his  watch,  "  I've  got  to  go  now,  an' 
I'll  see  ye  later,  mebbe.  You  feel  like  takin'  holt 
to-day?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  John  with  alacrity. 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Harum.  "  You  tell  Tim- 
son  what  you  want,  an'  make  him  show  you  ev- 
erythin'.  He  understands,  an'  I've  paid  him  for't. 
He's  agreed  to  stay  any  time  in  reason  't  you 
want  him,  but  I  guess,"  he  added  with  a  laugh, 
"  't  you  c'n  pump  him  dry  'n  a  day  or  two.  It 
haint  rained  wisdom  an'  knowlidge  in  his  part  o' 
the  country  fer  a  consid'able  spell." 

David  stood  for  a  moment  drawing  on  his 
gloves,  and  then,  looking  at  John  with  his  char 
acteristic  chuckle,  continued: 

"  Allowed  he'd  ben  drawin'  the  hull  load,  did 
he?  Wa'al,  sir,  the  truth  on't  is  't  he  never  come 
to  a  hill  yet,  'f  't  wa'n't  more  'n  a  foot  high,  but 
what  I  had  to  git  out  an'  push;  nor  never  struck 
a  turn  in  the  road  but  what  I  had  to  take  him  by 
the  head  an'  lead  him  into  it."  With  which  Mr. 
Harum  put  on  his  overcoat  and  cap  and  de 
parted. 

Mr.  Timson  was  leaning  over  the  counter  in 
animated  controversy  with  a  man  on  the  outside 
who  had  evidently  asserted  or  quoted  (the  quo 
tation  is  the  usual  weapon:  it  has  a  double  barb 
and  can  be  wielded  with  comparative  safety) 
something  of  a  wounding  effect. 

"  No,  sir,"  exclaimed  Chet,  with  a  sounding 
slap  on  the  counter,  "  no,  sir!  The'  ain't  one 
word  o'  truth  in't.  I  said  myself,  '  I  won't  stan* 


DAVID   HARUM.  127 

it,'  I  says,  '  not  f'm  you  ner  nobody  else,'  I  says, 

'  an'  what's  more,'  says  I "     The  expression 

in  the  face  of  Mr.  Timson's  tormentor  caused 
that  gentleman  to  break  off  and  look  around. 
The  man  on  the  outside  grinned,  stared  at  John 
a  moment,  and  went  out,  and  Timson  turned 
and  said,  as  John  came  forward,  "Hello!  The 
old  man  picked  ye  to  pieces  all  he  wanted 
to?" 

"  We  are  through  for  the  day,  I  fancy,"  said 
our  friend,  smiling,  "  and  if  you  are  ready  to  be 
gin  my  lessons  I  am  ready  to  take  them.  Mr. 
Harum  told  me  that  you  would  be  good  enough 
to  show  me  what  was  necessary." 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Timson  readily  enough, 
and  so  John  began  his  first  day's  work  in  David's 
office.  He  was  surprised  and  encouraged  to 
find  how  much  his  experience  in  Rush  &  Com 
pany's  office  stood  him  in  hand,  and  managed  to 
acquire  in  a  comparatively  short  time  a  pretty 
fair  comprehension  of  the  system  which  prevailed 
in  "  Harum's  bank,"  notwithstanding  the  inces 
sant  divagations  of  his  instructor. 

It  was  decided  between  Timson  and  our  friend 
that  on  the  following  day  the  latter  should  under 
take  the  office  work  under  supervision,  and  the 
next  morning  John  was  engaged  upon  the  pre 
liminaries  of  the  day's  business  when  his  em 
ployer  came  in  and  seated  himself  at  his  desk  in 
the  back  room.  After  a  few  minutes,  in  which 
he  was  busy  with  his  letters,  he  appeared  in  the 
doorway  of  the  front  room.  He  did  not  speak, 
for  John  saw  him,  and,  responding  to  a  back 
ward  toss  of  the  head,  followed  him  into  the  "  par 
lor,"  and  at  an  intimation  of  the  same  silent 
character  shut  the  doors.  Mr.  Harum  sat 


I2g  DAVID   HARUM. 

down  at  his  desk,  and  John  stood  awaiting  his 
pleasure. 

"  How  'd  ye  make  out  yestidy?"  he  asked. 
"Git  any  thin'  out  of  old  tongue-tied?"  pointing 
with  his  thumb  toward  the  front  room. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  John,  smiling,  as  he  recalled 
the  unceasing  flow  of  words  which  had  enveloped 
Timson's  explanations. 

"  How  much  longer  do  you  think  you'll  have 
to  have  him  'round?  "  asked  Mr.  Harum. 

"  Well,"  said  John,  "  of  course  your  custom 
ers  are  strangers  to  me,  but  so  far  as  the  rou 
tine  of  the  office  is  concerned  I  think  I  can  man 
age  after  to-day.  But  I  shall  have  to  appeal  to 
you  rather  often  for  a  while  until  I  get  thorough 
ly  acquainted  with  my  work." 

"  Good  fer  you,"  said  David.  "  You've  took 
holt  a  good  sight  quicker  'n  I  thought  ye  would, 
an'  I'll  spend  more  or  less  time  'round  here  fer  a 
while,  or  be  where  you  c'n  reach  me.  It's  like 
this,"  he  continued,  "  Chet's  a  helpless  kind  of 
critter,  fer  all  his  braggin'  an'  talk,  an'  I  ben 
feelin'  kind  o'  wambly  about  turnin'  him  loose — • 
though  the  Lord  knows,"  he  said  with  feeling, 
"  't  I've  had  bother  enough  with  him  to  kill  a 
tree.  But  anyway  I  wrote  to  some  folks  I  know 
up  to  Syrchester  to  git  something  fer  him  to 
do,  an'  I  got  a  letter  to  send  him  along,  an' 
mebbe  they'd  give  him  a  show.  See?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  John,  "  and  if  you  are  willing 
to  take  the  chances  of  my  mistakes  I  will  under 
take  to  get  on  without  him." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  banker,  "  we'll  call  it  a 
heat — and,  say,  don't  let  on  what  I've  told  you. 
I  want  to  see  how  long  it'll  take  to  git  all  over 
the  village  that  he  didn't  ask  no  odds  o'  nobody. 


DAVID   HARUM.  12$ 

Hadn't  ben  out  o'  a  job  three  days  'fore  the'  was 
a  lot  o'  chances,  an'  all  't  he  had  to  do  was  to 
take  his  pick  out  o'  the  lot  on  'em." 

"Really?"  said  John. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  David.  "  Some  folks  is 
gaited  that  way.  Amusin',  ain't  it? — Hullo,  Dick! 
Wa'al?" 

"  Willis'll  give  two  hunderd  fer  the  sorr'l 
colt,"  said  the  incomer,  whom  John  recognized 
as  one  of  the  loungers  in  the  Eagle  bar  the  night 
of  his  arrival. 

"E-um'm!"  said  David.  "Was  he  speakin' 
of  any  pertic'ler  colt,  or  sorril  colts  in  gen'ral?  I 
hain't  got  the  only  one  the'  is,  I  s'pose." 

Dick  merely  laughed.  "  Because,"  continued 
the  owner  of  the  "  sorril  colt,"  "  if  Steve  Willis 
wants  to  lay  in  sorril  colts  at  two  hunderd  a 
piece,  I  ain't  goin'  to  gainsay  him,  but  you  tell 
him  that  two-forty-nine  ninety-nine  won't  buy 
the  one  in  my  barn."  Dick  laughed  again. 

John  made  a  move  in  the  direction  of  the 
front  room. 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,"  said  David.  "  Shake 
hands  with  Mr.  Larrabee." 

"  Seen  ye  before,"  said  Dick,  as  they  shook 
hands.  "  I  was  in  the  barroom  when  you  come 
in  the  other  night,"  and  then  he  laughed  as  at  the 
recollection  of  something  very  amusing. 

John  flushed  a  little  and  said,  a  bit  stiffly,  "  I 
remember  you  were  kind  enough  to  help  about 
my  luggage." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Dick,  conscious  of  the 
other's  manner.  "  I  wa'n't  laughin'  at  you,  that 
is,  not  in  pertic'ler.  I  couldn't  see  your  face 
when  Ame  offered  ye  pie  an'  doughnuts  instid  of 
beefsteak  an'  fixins.  I  c'd  only  guess  at  that 


130 


DAVID   HARUM. 


but  Ame's  face  was  enough  fer  me,"  and  Dick 
went  off  into  another  cachinnation. 

David's  face  indicated  some  annoyance. 
"  Oh,  shet  up,"  he  exclaimed.  "  You'd  keep 
that  yawp  o'  your'n  goin',  I  believe,  if  it  was  the 
judgment  day." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Dick  with  a  grin,  "  I  expect 
the'  might  be  some  fun  to  be  got  out  o'  that,  if 
a  feller  wa'n't  worryin'  too  much  about  his  own 

skin;  an'  as  fur's  I'm  concerned "  Dick's 

further  views  on  the  subject  of  that  momentous 
occasion  were  left  unexplained.  A  significant 
look  in  David's  face  caused  the  speaker  to 
break  off  and  turn  toward  the  door,  through 
which  came  two  men,  the  foremost  a  hulking, 
shambling  fellow,  with  an  expression  of  repel 
lent  sullenness.  He  came  forward  to  within 
about  ten  feet  of  David's  desk,  while  his  compan 
ion  halted  near  the  door.  David  eyed  him  in 
silence. 

"  I  got  this  here  notice  this  mornin',"  said  the 
man,  "  sayin'  't  my  note  'd  be  due  to-morrer,  an' 
'd  have  to  be  paid." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  his  arm  over  the 
back  of  his  chair  and  his  left  hand  resting  on  his 
desk,  "  that's  so,  ain't  it?" 

"  Mebbe  so,"  was  the  fellow's  reply,  "  fur  's 
the  comin'  due  's  concerned,  but  the  payin'  part 
's  another  matter." 

"Was  you  cal'latin'  to  have  it  renewed?" 
asked  David,  leaning  a  little  forward. 

"  No,"  said  the  man  coolly,  "  I  don't  know  's 
I  want  to  renew  it  fer  any  pertic'ler  time,  an'  I 
guess  it  c'n  run  along  fer  a  while  jest  as  't  is."1 
John  looked  at  Dick  Larrabee.  He  was  watch 
ing  David's  face  with  an  expression  of  the  ut~ 


DAVID   HARUM. 

most  enjoyment.  David  twisted  his  chair  a  little 
more  to  the  right  and  out  from  the  desk. 

''You  think  it  c'n  run  along,  do  ye?"  he 
asked  suavely.  "  I'm  glad  to  have  your  views 
on  the  subject.  Wa'al,  I  guess  it  kin,  too,  until 
to-morrd  at  four  o'clock,  an'  after  that  you  c'n 
settle  with  lawyer  Johnson  or  the  sheriff."  The 
man  uttered  a  disdainful  laugh. 

"  I  guess  it'll  puzzle  ye  some  to  c'lect  it," 
he  said.  Mr.  Harum's  bushy  red  eyebrows  met 
above  his  nose. 

"  Look  here,  Bill  Montaig,"  he  said,  "  I  know 
more  'bout  this  matter  'n  you  think  for.  I  know 
't  you  ben  makin'  your  brags  that  you'd  fix  me 
in  this  deal.  You  allowed  that  you'd  set  up  usury 
in  the  fust  place,  an'  if  that  didn't  work  I'd  find 
you  was  execution  proof  anyways.  That's  so, 
ain't  it?  " 

11  That's  about  the  size  on't,"  said  Montaig, 
putting  his  feet  a  little  farther  apart.  David  had 
risen  from  his  chair. 

"You  didn't  talk  that  way,"  proceeded  the 
latter,  "  when  you  come  whinin'  'round  here  to 
git  that  money  in  the  fust  place,  an'  as  I  reckon 
some  o'  the  facts  in  the  case  has  slipped  out  o' 
your  mind  since  that  time,  I  guess  I'd  better  jog 
your  mem'ry  a  little." 

It  was  plain  from  the  expression  of  Mr.  Mon- 
taig's  countenance  that  his  confidence  in  the 
strength  of  his  position  was  not  quite  so  assured 
as  at  first,  but  he  maintained  his  attitude  as  well 
as  in  him  lay. 

"  In  the  fust  place,"  David  began  his  assault, 
"7  didn't  lend  ye  the  money.  I  borr'ed  it  for 
ye  on  my  indorsement,  an'  charged  ye  fer  doin' 
it,  as  I  told  ye  at  the  time;  an'  another  thing 


DAVID    HARUM. 

that  you  appear  to  forgit  is  that  you  signed  a 
paper  statin'  that  you  was  wuth,  in  good  and 
available  pusson'ls,  free  an'  clear,  over  five  hun- 
derd  dollars,  an'  that  the  statement  was  made  to 
me  with  the  view  of  havin'  me  indorse  your  note 
fer  one-fifty.  Rec'lect  that?"  David  smiled 
grimly  at  the  look  of  disconcert  which,  in  spite 
of  himself,  appeared  in  Bill's  face. 

"  I  don't  remember  signin'  no  paper,"  he  said 
doggedly. 

"  Jest  as  like  as  not,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum. 
"  What  you  was  thinkin'  of  about  that  time  was 
gittin'  that  money" 

"  I'd  like  to  see  that  paper,"  said  Bill,  with  a 
pretence  of  incredulity. 

"  You'll  see  it  when  the  time  comes,"  asserted 
David,  with  an  emphatic  nod.  He  squared  him 
self,  planting  his  feet  apart,  and,  thrusting  his 
hands  deep  in  his  coat  pockets,  faced  the  discom 
fited  yokel. 

"  Do  you  think,  Bill  Montaig,"  he  said,  with 
measureless  contempt,  "  that  I  didn't  know  who 
I  was  dealin'  with?  that  I  didn't  know  what  a 
low-lived,  roost-robbin'  skunk  you  was?  an' 
didn't  know  how  to  protect  myself  agin  such 
an'muls  as  you  be?  Wa'al,  I  did,  an'  don't  you 
stop  thinkin'  'bout  it — an',"  he  added,  shaking 
his  finger  at  the  object  of  his  scorn,  "  you'll  pay 
that  note  or  I'll  put  ye  where  the  dogs  won't  bite 
ye,"  and  with  that  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  re 
sumed  his  seat.  Bill  stood  for  a  minute  with  a 
scowl  of  rage  and  defeat  in  his  lowering  face. 

"  Got  any  further  bus'nis  with  me?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Harum.  "  Anythin'  more  't  I  c'n  oblige  ye 
about?"  There  was  no  answer. 

"  I  asked  you,"  said  David,  raising  his  voice 


DAVID   HARUM.  "133 

and  rising  to  his  feet,  "  if  you  had  any  further 
bus'nis  with  me." 

"  I  dunno's  I  have,"  was  the  sullen  response. 

"All  right,"  said  David.  "That  bein'  the 
case,  an'  as  I've  got  somethin'  to  do  beside  wast- 
in'  my  time  on  such  wuthless  pups  as  you  be, 
I'll  thank  you  to  git  out  There's  the  door,"  he 
added,  pointing  to  it. 

"  Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho !  "  came  from  the  throat 
of  Dick  Larrabee.  This  was  too  much  for  the 
exasperated  Bill,  and  he  erred  (to  put  it  mildly) 
in  raising  his  arm  and  advancing  a  step  toward 
his  creditor.  He  was  not  swift  enough  to  take 
the  second,  however,  for  David,  with  amazing 
quickness,  sprang  upon  him,  and  twisting  him 
around,  rushed  him  out  of  the  door,  down  the 
passage,  and  out  of  the  front  door,  which  was 
obligingly  held  open  by  an  outgoing  client,  who 
took  in  the  situation  and  gave  precedence  to  Mr. 
Montaig.  His  companion,  who  so  far  had  taken 
no  part,  made  a  motion  to  interfere,  but  John, 
who  stood  nearest  to  him,  caught  him  by  the 
collar  and  jerked  him  back,  with  the  suggestion 
that  it  would  be  better  to  let  the  two  have  it  out 
by  themselves.  David  came  back  rather  breath 
less  and  very  red  in  the  face,  but  evidently  in 
exceeding  good  humor. 

"  Scat  my !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Hain't  had 

such  a  good  tussle  I  dunno  when." 

"  Bill's  considered  ruther  an  awk'ard  custom 
er,"  remarked  Dick.  "  I  guess  he  hain't  had  no 
such  handlin'  fer  quite  a  while." 

"  Sho!  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Harum.  "  The'  ain't 
nothin'  to  him  but  wind  an'  meanness.  Who  was 
that  feller  with  him?" 

"Name  '&  Smith,   I  believe,"  replied  Dick. 


134 


DAVID   HARUM. 


"  Guess  Bill  brought  him  along  fer  a  witness,  an* 
I  reckon  he  seen  all  he  wanted  to.  I'll  bet  his 
neck's  achin'  some,"  added  Mr.  Larrabee  with  a 
laugh. 

"  How's  that?"  asked  David. 

"  Well,  he  made  a  move  to  tackle  you  as  you 
was  escortin'  Bill  out,  an'  Mr.  Lenox  there 
caught  him  in  the  collar  an'  gin  him  a  jerk 
that'd  'a'  landed  him  on  his  back,"  said  Dick, 
"  if,"  turning  to  John,  "  you  hadn't  helt  holt  of 
him.  You  putty  nigh  broke  his  neck.  He  went 
off — ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho! — wrigglin'  it  to  make 
sure." 

"  I  used  more  force  than  was  necessary,  I'm 
afraid,"  said  Billy  Williams's  pupil,  "  but  there 
wasn't  much  time  to  calculate." 

"  Much  obliged,"  said  David  with  a  nod. 

"  Not  at  all,"  protested  John,  laughing.  "  I 
have  enjoyed  a  great  deal  this  morning." 

"  It  has  ben  ruther  pleasant,"  remarked  David 
with  a  chuckle,  "  but  you  mustn't  cal'late  on 
bavin'  such  fun  ev'ry  mornin'." 

John  went  into  the  business  office,  leaving  the 
banker  and  Dick. 

"  Say,"  said  the  latter  when  they  were  alone, 
"  that  young  man  o'  your'n  's  quite  a  feller.  He 
took  care  o'  that  big  Smith  chap  with  one  hand; 
an'  say,  you  c'n  git  round  on  your  pins  'bout  's 
lively  's  they  make  'em,  I  guess.  I  swan !  "  he 
exclaimed,  slapping  his  thigh  and  shaking  with 
laughter,  "  the  hull  thing  head-an'-shouldered 
any  show  I  seen  lately."  And  then  for  a  while 
they  fell  to  talking  of  the  "  sorril  colt "  and  other 
things. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WHEN  John  went  back  to  the  office  after  the 
noonday  intermission  it  was  manifest  that  some 
thing  had  happened  to  Mr.  Timson,  and  that  the 
something  was  of  a  nature  extremely  gratifying 
to  that  worthy  gentleman.  He  was  beaming 
with  satisfaction  and  rustling  with  importance. 
Several  times  during  the  afternoon  he  appeared  to 
be  on  the  point  of  confiding  his  news,  but  in  the 
face  of  the  interruptions  which  occurred,  or 
which  he  feared  might  check  the  flow  of  his 
communication,  he  managed  to  restrain  himself 
till  after  the  closing  of  the  office.  But  scarcely 
were  the  shutters  up  (at  the  willing  hands  of 
Peleg  Hopkins)  when  he  turned  to  John  and, 
looking  at  him  sharply,  said,  "  Has  Dave  said 
any  thin'  'bout  my  leavin'?" 

"  He  told  me  he  expected  you  would  stay  as 
long  as  might  be  necessary  to  get  me  well 
started,"  said  John  cautiously,  mindful  of  Mr. 
Harum's  injunction. 

"Jest  like  him,"  declared  Chet.  "Jest  like 
him  for  all  the  world;  but  the  fact  o'  the  matter 
is  't  I'm  goin'  to-morro'.  I  s'pose  he  thought," 
reflected  Mr.  Timson,  "  thet  he'd  ruther  you'd 
find  it  out  yourself  than  to  have  to  break  it  to 
ye,  'cause  then,  don't  ye  see,  after  I  was  gone 
he  c'd  lay  the  hull  thing  at  my  door." 

135 


DAVID   HARUM. 

"  Really,"  said  John,  "  I  should  have  said  that 
he  ought  to  have  told  me." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Cliet  encouragingly,  "  mebbe 
you'll  git  along  somehow,  though  I'm  'fraid  you'll 
have  more  or  less  trouble;  but  I  told  Dave  that 
as  fur  's  I  c'd  see,  mebbe  you'd  do  's  well  's  most 
anybody  he  c'd  git  that  didn't  know  any  o'  the 
customers,  an'  hadn't  never  done  any  o'  this  kind 
o'  work  before." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John.  "  And 
so  you  are  off  to-morrow,  are^you?  " 

"  Got  to  be,"  declared  Mr.  Timson.  "  I'd  V 
liked  to  stay  with  you  a  spell  longer,  but  the's 
a  big  concern  f'm  out  of  town  that  as  soon  as 
they  heard  I  was  at  libe'ty  wrote  for  me  to  come 
right  along  up,  an'  I  s'pose  I  hadn't  ought  to 
keep  'em  waitin'." 

"  No,  I  should  think  not,"  said  John,  "  and 
I  congratulate  you  upon  having  located  yourself 
so  quickly." 

"  Oh! "  said  Mr.  Timson,  with  ineffable  com 
placency,  "  I  hain't  give  myself  no  worry;  I  hain't 
lost  no  sleep.  I've  allowed  all  along  that  Dave 
Harum'd  find  out  that  he  wa'n't  the  unly  man 
that  needed  my  kind  o'  work,  an'  I  ain't  meanin* 
any  disrispect  to  you  when  I  say  't — 

"  Just  so,"  said  John.  "  I  quite  understand. 
Nobody  could  expect  to  take  just  the  place  with 
him  that  you  have  filled.  And,  by  the  way,"  he 
added,  "  as  you  are  going  in  the  morning,  and 
I  may  not  see  you  again,  would  you  kindly  give 
me  the  last  balance  sheets  of  the  two  ledgers  and 
the  bill-book.  I  suppose,  of  course,  that  they 
are  brought  down  to  the  first  of  the  month,  and 
1  shall  want  to  have  them." 

"  Oh,  yes,  cert'nly,  of  course — wa'al  I  guess 


DAVID    HARUM. 


Dave's  got  'em,"  replied  Chet,  looking  consider 
ably  disconcerted,  "  but  I'll  look  'em  up  in  the 
mornin'.  My  train  don't  go  till  ten  o'clock,  an' 
I'll  see  you  'bout  any  little  last  thing  in  the  morn 
in'  —  but  I  guess  I've  got  to  go  now  on  ac 
count  of  a  lot  of  things.  You  c'n  shut  up,  can't 
ye?" 

Whereupon  Mr.  Timson  made  his  exit,  and 
not  long  afterward  David  came  in.  By  that 
time  everything  had  been  put  away,  the  safe  and 
vault  closed,  and  Peleg  had  departed  with  the 
mail  and  his  freedom  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  lifting  himself  to 
a  seat  on  the  counter,  "  how've  you  made  out? 
All  O.  K.?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  John,  "  I  think  so." 

"Where's  Chet?" 

"  He  went  away  some  few  minutes  ago.  He 
said  he  had  a  good  many  things  to  attend  to  as 
he  was  leaving  in  the  morning." 

"E-um'm!"  said  David  incredulously.  "I 
guess  't  won't  take  him  long  to  close  up  his  mat 
ters.  Did  he  leave  ev'ry  thing  in  good  shape? 
Cash  all  right,  an'  so  on?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  John.  "  The  cash  is  right 
I  am  sure." 

"  How  'bout  the  books?  " 

"  I  asked  him  to  let  me  have  the  balance 
sheets,  and  he  said  that  you  must  have  them,  but 
that  he  would  come  in  in  the  morning  and  —  well, 
what  he  said  was  that  he  would  see  me  in  the 
morning,  and,  as  he  put  it,  look  after  any  little 
last  thing." 

"  E-um'm!  "  David  grunted.  "  He  won't  do 
no  such  a  thing.  We've  seen  the  last  of  him,  you 
bet,  an'  a  good  riddance.  He'll  take  the  nine 
10 


138 


DAVID   HARUM. 


o'clock  to-night,  that's  what  he'll  do.  Drawed 
his  pay,  I  guess,  didn't  he?  " 

"  He  said  he  was  to  be  paid  for  this  month," 
answered  John,  "  and  took  sixty  dollars.  Was 
that  right?" 

"  Yes,"  said  David,  nodding  his  head  absently. 
"What  was  it  he  said  about  them  statements?" 
he  inquired  after  a  moment. 

"  He  said  he  guessed  you  must  have  them." 

"  E-um'm!  "  was  David's  comment.  "  What'd 
he  say  about  leavin'?" 

John  laughed  and  related  the  conversation  as 
exactly  as  he  could. 

"What'd  I  tell  ye,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  with 
a  short  laugh.  "  Mebbe  he  won't  go  till  to-mor- 
ro'-,  after  all,"  he  remarked.  "  He'll  want  to  put 
in  a  leetle  more  time  tellin'  how  he  was  sent  for 
in  a  hurry  by  that  big  concern  f m  out  of  town 
't  he's  goin'  to." 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  can't  understand  it,"  said 
John,  "  knowing  that  you  can  contradict  him." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  "  he'll  allow  that  if  he 
gits  in  the  fust  word,  he'll  take  the  pole.  It  don't 
matter  anyway,  long  's  he's  gone.  I  guess  you 
an'  me  c'n  pull  the  load,  can't  we?"  and  he 
dropped  down  off  the  counter  and  started  to  go 
out.  "  By  the  way,"  he  said,  halting  a  moment, 
"can't  you  come  in  to  tea  at  six  o'clock?  I 
want  to  make  ye  acquainted  with  Polly,  an'  she's 
itchin'  to  see  ye." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  John. 

"  Polly,"  said  David,  "  I've  ast  the  young 
feller  to  come  to  tea,  but  don't  you  say  the  word 
'  Eagle '  to  him.  You  c'n  show  your  ign'rance 
'bout  all  the  other  kinds  of  birds  an'  animals  you 


DAVID   HARUM.  139 

ain't  familiar  with,"  said  the  unfeeling  brother, 
"  but  leave  eagles  alone." 

"What  you  up  to  now?"  she  asked,  but  she 
got  no  answer  but  a  laugh. 

From  a  social  point  of  view  the  entertainment 
could  not  be  described  as  a  very  brilliant  success. 
Our  friend  was  tired  and  hungry.  Mr.  Harum 
was  unusually  taciturn,  and  Mrs.  Bixbee,  being 
under  her  brother's  interdict  as  regarded  the  sub 
ject  which,  had  it  been  allowed  discussion,  might 
have  opened  the  way,  was  at  a  loss  for  general 
ities.  But  John  afterward  got  upon  terms  of  the 
friendliest  nature  with  that  kindly  soul. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SOME  weeks  after  John's  assumption  of  his 
duties  in  the  office  of  David  Harum,  Banker, 
that  gentleman  sat  reading  his  New  York  paper 
in  the  "  wing  settin'-room,"  after  tea,  and  Aunt 
Polly  was  occupied  with  the  hemming  of  a  towel. 
The  able  editorial  which  David  was  perusing  was 
strengthening  his  conviction  that  all  the  intelli 
gence  and  virtue  of  the  country  were  monopo 
lized  by  the  Republican  party,  when  his  medita 
tions  were  broken  in  upon  by  Mrs.  Bixbee,  who 
knew  nothing  and  cared  less  about  the  Force 
Bill  or  the  doctrine  of  protection  to  American 
industries. 

"  You  hain't  said  nothin'  fer  quite  a  while 
about  the  bank,"  she  remarked.  "  Is  Mr.  Lenox 
gittin'  along  all  right?  " 

"  Guess  he's  gittin'  into  condition  as  fast  as 
c'd  be  expected,"  said  David,  between  two  lines 
of  his  editorial. 

"  It  must  be  awful  lonesome  fer  him,"  she 
observed,  to  which  there  was  no  reply. 

"  Ain't  it?"  she  asked,  after  an  interval. 

"  Ain't  what?  "  said  David,  looking  up  at  her. 

"  Awful  lonesome,"  she  reiterated. 

"  Guess  nobody  ain't  ever  very  lonesome  when 
you're  'round  an'  got  your  breath,"  was  the  reply. 
"What  you  talkin'  about?" 
140 


DAVID   HARUM.  141 

"  I  ain't  talkin'  about  you,  't  any  rate,"  said 
Mrs.  Bixbee.  "  I  was  sayin'  it  must  be  awful 
lonesome  fer  Mr.  Lenox  up  here  where  he  don't 
know  a  soul  hardly,  an'  livin'  at  that  hole  of  a 
tavern." 

"  I  don't  see  't  you've  any  cause  to  com 
plain  long's  he  don't,"  said  David,  hoping  that 
it  would  not  come  to  his  sister's  ears  that  he 
had,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  discouraged  any  at 
tempt  on  John's  part  to  better  his  quarters,  "  an' 
he  hain't  ben  very  lonesome  daytimes,  I  guess,  so 
fur,  'thout  he's  ben  makin'  work  fer  himself  to 
kill  time." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "we  found  that  Chet 
hadn't  done  more  'n  to  give  matters  a  lick  an'  a 
promise  in  most  a  year.  He  done  just  enough 
to  keep  up  the  day's  work  an'  no  more  an* 
the  upshot  on't  is  that  John's  had  to  put 
in  consid'able  time  to  git  things  straightened 
out." 

"  What  a  shame!  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly. 

"  Keeps  him  f'm  bein'  lonesome,"  remarked 
her  brother  with  a  grin. 

"  An'  he  hain't  had  no  time  to  himself!  "  she 
protested.  "  I  don't  believe  you've  made  up 
your  mind  yet  whether  you're  goin'  to  like  him, 
an'  I  don't  believe  he'll  stay  anyway." 

"  I've  told  more  'n  forty-leven  times,"  said 
Mr.  Harum,  looking  up  over  his  paper,  "  that  I 
thought  we  was  goin'  to  make  a  hitch  of  it,  an* 
he  cert'nly  hain't  said  nuthin'  'bout  leavin',  an'  I 
guess  he  won't  fer  a  while,  tavern  or  no  tavern. 
He's  got  a  putty  stiff  upper  lip  of  his  own,  I 
reckon,"  David  further  remarked,  with  a  short 
laugh,  causing  Mrs.  Bixbee  to  look  up  at  him 


142 


DAVID    HARUM. 


inquiringly,  which  look  the  speaker  answered 
with  a  nod,  saying,  "  Me  an'  him  had  a  little  go- 
round  to-day." 

"You  hain't  had  no  words,  hev  ye?"  she 
asked  anxiously. 

"  Wa'al,  we  didn't  have  what  ye  might  call 
words.  I  was  jest  tryin'  a  little  experiment  with 
him." 

"  Humph,"  she  remarked,  "  you're  alwus  try- 
in'  exper'ments  on  somebody,  an'  you'll  be  liable 
to  git  ketched  at  it  some  day." 

"  Exceptin'  on  you,"  said  David.  "  You  don't 
think  I'd  try  any  experiments  on  you,  do  ye?" 

"Me!"  she  cried.  "  You're  at  me  the  hull 
endurin'  time,  an'  you  know  it." 

"  Wa'al,  but  Polly,"  said  David  insinuatingly, 
"  you  don't  know  how  int'restin'  you  be" 

"  Glad  you  think  so,"  she  declared,  with  a  sniff 
and  a  toss  of  the  head.  "  What  you  ben  up  to 
with  Mr.  Lenox?" 

"  Oh,  nuthin'  much,"  replied  Mr.  Harum, 
making  a  feint  of  resuming  his  reading. 

"  Be  ye  goin'  to  tell  me,  or — air  ye  too  'shamed 
on't?  "  she  added  with  a  little  laugh,  which  some 
what  turned  the  tables  on  her  teasing  brother. 

"  Wa'al,  I  laid  out  to  try  an'  read  this  paper," 
he  said,  spreading  it  out  on  his  lap,  "  but,"  re 
signedly,  "  I  guess  't  ain't  no  use.  Do  you  know 
what  a  count'fit  bill  is?"  he  asked. 

"  I  dunno  's  I  ever  see  one,"  she  said,  "  but 
I  s'pose  I  do.  They're  agin  the  law,  ain't  they?" 

"  The's  a  number  o'  things  that's  agin  the 
law,"  remarked  David  dryly. 

"  Wa'al?  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bixbee  after  a  mo 
ment  of  waiting. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  "  the'  ain't  much  to  tell, 


DAVID    HARUM. 


143 


but  it's  plain  I  don't  git  no  peace  till  you  git  it 
out  of  me.  It  was  like  this:  The  young  feller's 
took  holt  everywhere  else  right  off,  but  handlin' 
the  money  bothered  him  consid'able  at  fust.  It 
was  slow  work,  an'  I  c'd  see  it  myself;  but  he's 
gettin'  the  hang  on't  now.  Another  thing  I  ex 
pected  he'd  run  up  agin  was  count'fits.  The'  ain't 
so  very  many  on  'em  round  now-a-days,  but  the' 
is  now  an'  then  one.  He  allowed  to  me  that  he 
was  liable  to  get  stuck  at  fust,  an'  I  reckoned  he 
would.  But  I  never  said  nuthin'  about  it,  nor 
ast  no  questions  until  to-day;  an'  this  afternoon 
I  come  in  to  look  'round,  an'  I  says  to  him, 
'  What  luck  have  you  had  with  your  money? 
Git  any  bad?'  I  says.  '  Wa'al/  he  says,  colorin' 
up  a  little,  '  I  don't  know  how  many  I  may  have 
took  in  an'  paid  out  agin  without  knowin'  it,'  he 
says,  *  but  the'  was  a  couple  sent  back  from  New 
York  out  o'  that  package  that  went  down  last 
Friday.' " 

"'What  was  they?5  I  says. 

"  '  A  five  an'  a  ten,'  he  says. 

"'Where  be  they?'  I  says. 

"  '  They're  in  the  draw  there — they're  ruther 
int'restin'  objects  of  study,'  he  says,  kind  o'  laugh- 
in'  on  the  wrong  side  of  his  mouth. 

"  '  Countin'  'em  in  the  cash? '  I  says,  an'  with 
that  he  kind  o'  reddened  up  agin.  '  No,  sir/  he 
says,  '  I  charged  'em  up  to  my  own  account,  an* 
I've  kept  'em  to  compare  with/ 

"  *  You  hadn't  ought  to  done  that/  I  says. 

"  '  You  think  I  ought  to  'a'  put  'em  in  the 
fire  at  once? '  says  he. 

" '  No/  I  says,  '  that  wa'n't  what  I  meant. 
IWhy  didn't  you  mix  'em  up  with  the  other 
money,  an'  let  'em  go  when  you  was  payin'  out? 


DAVID    HARUM. 


Anyways/  I  says,  '  you  charge  'em  up  to  profit 
an'  loss  if  you're  goin'  to  charge  'em  to  any- 
thin',  an'  let  me  have  'em,'  I  says. 

"  '  What'll  you  do  with  'em?'  he  says  to  me, 
kind  o'  shuttin'  his  jaws  together. 

"Til  take  care  on  'em,'  I  says.  'They 
mayn't  be  good  enough  to  send  down  to  New 
York,'  I  says,  '  but  they'll  go  around  here  all 
right  —  jest  as  good  as  any  other,'  I  says,  '  long  's 
you  keep  'em  movin'.'  " 

"David  Harum!"  cried  Polly,  who,  though 
not  quite  comprehending  some  of  the  technical 
ities  of  detail,  was  fully  alive  to  the  turpitude  of 
the  suggestion.  "  I  hope  to  gracious  he  didn't 
think  you  was  in  earnest.  Why,  s'pose  they  was 
passed  around,  wouldn't  somebody  git  stuck  with 
'em  in  the  long  run?  You  know  they  would." 
Mrs.  Bixbee  occasionally  surprised  her  brother 
with  unexpected  penetration,  but  she  seldom  got 
much  recognition  of  it. 

"  I  see  by  the  paper,"  he  remarked,  "  that  the' 
was  a  man  died  in  Pheladelphy  one  day  last 
week,"  which  piece  of  barefaced  irrelevancy  elic 
ited  no  notice  from  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"  What  more  did  he  say?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Wa'al,"  responded  Mr.  Harum  with  a  laugh, 
"  he  said  that  he  didn't  see  why  I  should  be  a 
loser  by  his  mistakes,  an'  that  as  fur  as  the  bills 
was  concerned  they  belonged  to  him,  an'  with 
that,"  said  the  narrator,  "  Mister  Man  gits  'em 
out  of  the  draw  an'  jest  marches  into  the  back 
room  an'  puts  the  dum  things  int'  the  fire." 

"  He  done  jest  right,"  declared  Aunt  Polly, 
"  an'  you  know  it,  don't  ye  now?  " 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  "  f'm  his  standpoint  — 
f  m  his  standpoint,  I  guess  he  did,  an',"  rubbing 


DAVID   HARUM.  145 

his  chin  with  two  fingers  of  his  left  hand,  "  it's  a 
putty  dum  good  standpoint  too.  I've  ben  look- 
in',"  he  added  reflectively,  "  fer  an  honest  man 
fer  quite  a  number  o'  years,  an'  I  guess  I've  found 
him;  yes'm,  I  guess  I've  found  him." 

"  An'  be  you  goin'  to  let  him  lose  that  fifteen 
dollars?"  asked  the  practical  Polly,  fixing  her 
brother  with  her  eyes. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  a  short  laugh, 
"  what  c'n  I  do  with  such  an  obst'nit  critter  's 
he  is?  He  jest  backed  into  the  britchin',  an'  I 
couldn't  do  nothin'  with  him."  Aunt  Polly  sat 
over  her  sewing  for  a  minute  or  two  without  tak 
ing  a  stitch. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  done  it,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  I  dunno  but  I  did  make  ruther  a  mess  of  it," 
admitted  Mr.  Harum. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

IT  was  the  23d  of  December,  and  shortly  after 
the  closing  hour.  Peleg  had  departed  and  our 
friend  had  just  locked  the  vault  when  David 
came  into  the  office  and  around  behind  the 
counter. 

"  Be  you  in  any  hurry?  "  he  asked. 

John  said  he  was  not,  whereupon  Mr.  Harum 
hitched  himself  up  onto  a  high  office  stool,  with 
his  heels  on  the  spindle,  and  leaned  sideways 
upon  the  desk,  while  John  stood  facing  him  with 
his  left  arm  upon  the  desk. 

"  John,"  said  David,  "  do  ye  know  the  Widdo' 
Cullom?" 

"  No,"  said  John,  "  but  I  know  who  she  is — 
a  tall,  thin  woman,  who  walks  with  a  slight  stoop 
and  limp.  I  noticed  her  and  asked  her  name  be 
cause  there  was  something  about  her  looks  that 
attracted  my  attention — as  though  at  some  time 
she  might  have  seen  better  days." 

"  That's  the  party,"  said  David.  "  She  has 
seen  better  days,  but  she's  eat  an'  drunk  sorro' 
mostly  fer  goin'  on  thirty  year,  an'  darned  little 
else  good  share  o'  the  time,  I  reckon." 

"  She  has  that  appearance  certainly,"  said 
John. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David,  "she's  had  a  putty 
tough  time,  the  widdo'  has,  an'  yet,"  he  pro- 
146 


DAVID   HARUM.  147 

ceeded  after  a  momentary  pause,  "  the'  was  a  time 
when  the  Culloms  was  some  o'  the  king-pins  o' 
this  hull  region.  They  used  to  own  quarter  o' 
the  county,  an'  they  lived  in  the  big  house  up  on 
the  hill  where  Doc  Hays  lives  now.  That  was 
considered  to  be  the  finest  place  anywheres 
'round  here  in  them  days.  I  used  to  think  the 
Capitol  to  Washington  must  be  somethin'  like 
the  Cullom  house,  an'  that  Billy  P.  (folks  used  to 
call  him  Billy  P.  'cause  his  father's  name  was 
William  an'  his  was  William  Parker),  an'  that 
Billy  P.  'd  jest  's  like  's  not  be  president.  I've 
changed  my  mind  some  on  the  subject  of  presi 
dents  since  I  was  a  boy." 

Here  Mr.  Harum  turned  on  his  stool,  put  his 
right  hand  into  his  sack-coat  pocket,  extracted 
therefrom  part  of  a  paper  of  "  Maple  Dew,"  and 
replenished  his  left  cheek  with  an  ample  wad  of 
"  fine-cut."  John  took  advantage  of  the  break 
to  head  off  what  he  had  reason  to  fear  might 
turn  into  a  lengthy  digression  from  the  matter  in 
hand  by  saying,  "  I  beg  pardon,  but  how  does  it 
happen  that  Mrs.  Cullom  is  in  such  circum 
stances?  Has  the  family  all  died  out?  " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "they're  most  on  'em 
dead,  all  on  'em,  in  fact,  except  the  widdo's  son 
Charley,  but  as  fur  's  the  family  's  concerned,  it 
more  'n  died  out — it  gin  out!  'D  ye  ever  hear 
of  Jim  Wheton's  calf?  Wa'al,  Jim  brought  three 
or  four  veals  into  town  one  spring  to  sell.  Dick 
Larrabee  used  to  peddle  meat  them  days.  Dick 
looked  'em  over  an'  says,  '  Look  here,  Jim/  he 
says,  '  I  guess  you  got  a  "  deakin  "  in  that  lot,'  he 
says.  '  I  dunno  what  you  mean,'  says  Jim. 
*  Yes,  ye  do,  goll  darn  ye!'  says  Dick,  '  yes,  ye 
do.  You  didn't  never  kill  that  calf,  an'  you  know 


148 


DAVID   HARUM. 


it.  That  calf  died,  that's  what  that  calf  done, 
Come,  now,  own  up,'  he  says.  '  Wa'al,'  says  Jim, 
'  I  didn't  kill  it,  an'  it  didn't  die  nuther — it  jest 
kind  o'  gin  out!" 

John  joined  in  the  laugh  with  which  the  nar 
rator  rewarded  his  own  effort,  and  David  went 
on:  "Yes,  sir,  they  jes'  petered  out.  Old  Billy, 
Billy  P.'s  father,  inheritid  all  the  prop'ty — never 
done  a  stroke  of  work  in  his  life.  He  had  a  col- 
lidge  education,  went  to  Europe,  an'  all  that,  an' 
before  he  was  fifty  year  old  he  hardly  ever 
come  near  the  old  place  after  he  was  growed  up. 
The  land  was  all  farmed  out  on  shares,  an'  his 
farmers  mostly  bamboozled  him  the  hull  time. 
He  got  consid'able  income,  of  course,  but  as 
things  went  along  and  they  found  out  how  slack 
he  was  they  kept  bitin'  off  bigger  chunks  all  the 
time,  an'  sometimes  he  didn't  git  even  the  core. 
But  all  the  time  when  he  wanted  money — an'  he 
wanted  it  putty  often  I  tell  ye — the  easiest  way 
was  to  stick  on  a  morgidge;  an'  after  a  spell  it 
got  so  't  he'd  have  to  give  a  morgidge  to  pay 
the  int'rist  on  the  other  morgidges." 

"  But,"  said  John,  "  was  there  nothing  to  the 
estate  but  land?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  David,  "old  Billy's  father 
left  him  some  consid'able  pers'nal,  but  after  that 
was  gone  he  went  into  the  morgidge  bus'nis  as 
I  tell  ye.  He  lived  mostly  up  to  Syrchester  and 
around,  an'  when  he  got  married  he  bought  a 
place  in  Syrchester  and  lived  there  till  Billy  P. 
was  about  twelve  or  thirteen  year  old,  an'  he  was 
about  fifty.  By  that  time  he'd  got  'bout  to  the 
end  of  his  rope,  an'  the'  wa'n't  nothin'  for  it  but 
to  come  back  here  to  Homeville  an'  make  the 
most  o'  what  the'  was  left — an'  that's  what  he 


DAVID   HARUM.  149 

done,  let  alone  that  he  didn't  make  the  most  on't 
to  any  pertic'ler  extent.  Mis'  Cullom,  his  wife, 
wa'n't  no  help  to  him.  She  was  a  city  woman 
an'  didn't  take  to  the  country  no  way,  but  when 
she  died  it  broke  old  Billy  up  wus  'n  ever.  She 
peaked  an'  pined,  an'  died  when  Billy  P.  was 
about  fifteen  or  so.  Wa'al,  Billy  P.  an'  the  old 
man  wrastled  along  somehow,  an'  the  boy  went 
to  collidge  fer  a  year  or  so.  How  they  ever  got 
along  's  they  did  I  dunno.  The'  was  a  story 
that  some  far-off  relation  left  old  Billy  some 
money,  an'  I  guess  that  an'  what  they  got  off'm 
what  farms  was  left  carried  'em  along  till  Billy 
P.  was  twenty-five  or  so,  an'  then  he  up  an'  got 
married.  That  was  the  crownin'  stroke,"  re 
marked  David.  "  She  was  one  o'  the  village 
girls — respectable  folks,  more  'n  ordinary  good 
lookin'  an'  high  steppin',  an'  had  had  some 
schoolin'.  But  the  old  man  was  prouder  'n  a 
cock-turkey,  an'  thought  nobody  wa'n't  quite 
good  enough  fer  Billy  P.,  an'  all  along  kind  o' 
reckoned  that  he'd  marry  some  money  an'  git  a 
new  start.  But  when  he  got  married — on  the 
quiet,  you  know,  cause  he  knowed  the  old  man 
would  kick — wa'al,  that  killed  the  trick,  an'  the 
old  man  into  the  bargain.  It  took  the  gumption 
all  out  of  him,  an'  he  didn't  live  a  year.  Wa'al, 
sir,  it  was  curious,  but,  's  I  was  told,  putty  much 
the  hull  village  sided  with  the  old  man.  The 
Culloms  was  kind  o'  kings  in  them  days,  an* 
folks  wa'n't  so  one-man's-good's-anotherish  as 
they  be  now.  They  thought  Billy  P.  done 
wrong,  though  they  didn't  have  nothin'  to  say 
'gainst  the  girl  neither — an'  she's  very  much  re 
spected,  Mis'  Cullom  is,  an'  as  fur's  I'm  con 
cerned,  I've  alwus  guessed  she  kept  Billy  P.  goin' 


ISO 


DAVID   HARUM. 


full  as  long  's  any  one  could.  But  't  wa'n't  no 
use — that  is  to  say,  the  sure  thing  come  to  pass. 
He  had  a  nom'nal  title  to  a  good  deal  o'  prop'ty, 
but  the  equity  in  most  on't  if  it  had  ben  to  be 
put  up  wa'n't  enough  to  pay  fer  the  papers.  You 
see,  the'  ain't  never  ben  no  real  cash  value  in  farm 
prop'ty  in  these  parts.  The'  ain't  ben  hardly  a 
dozen  changes  in  farm  titles,  'cept  by  inher'tance 
or  foreclosure,  in  thirty  years.  So  Billy  P.  didn't 
make  no  effort.  Int'rist's  one  o'  them  things 
that  keeps  right  on  nights  an'  Sundays.  He  jest 
had  the  deeds  made  out  and  handed  'em  over 
when  the  time  came  to  settle.  The'  was  some 
village  lots  though  that  was  clear,  that  fetched 
him  in  some  money  from  time  to  time  until  they 
was  all  gone  but  one,  an'  that's  the  one  Mis'  Cul- 
lom  lives  on  now.  It  was  consid'able  more'n  a 
lot — in  fact,  a  putty  sizable  place.  She  thought 
the  sun  rose  an'  set  where  Billy  P.  was,  but  she 
took  a  crotchit  in  her  head,  and  wouldn't  ever 
sign  no  papers  fer  that,  an'  lucky  fer  him  too. 
The'  was  a  house  on  to  it,  an'  he  had  a  roof  over 
his  head  anyway  when  he  died  six  or  seven  years 
after  he  married,  an'  left  her  with  a  boy  to  raise. 
How  she  got  along  all  them  years  till  Charley  got 
big  enough  to  help,  I  swan!  I  don't  know.  She 
took  in  sewin'  an'  washin',  an'  went  out  to  cook 
an'  nurse,  an'  all  that,  but  I  reckon  the'  was  now 
an'  then  times  when  they  didn't  overload  their 
stomechs  much,  nor  have  to  open  the  winders  to 
cool  off.  But  she  held  onto  that  prop'ty  of  her'n 
like  a  pup  to  a  root.  It  was  putty  well  out  when 
Billy  P.  died,  but  the  village  has  growed  up  to  it. 
The's  some  good  lots  could  be  cut  out  on't,  an* 
it  backs  up  to  the  river  where  the  current's 
enough  to  make  a  mighty  good  power  fer  a  'lee- 


DAVID   HARUM.  151 

trie  light.  I  know  some  fellers  that  are  talkin' 
of  startin'  a  plant  here,  an'  it  ain't  out  o'  sight 
that  they'd  pay  a  good  price  fer  the  river  front, 
an'  enough  land  to  build  on.  Fact  on't  is,  it's 
got  to  be  a  putty  valu'ble  piece  o'  prop'ty,  more 
'n  she  cal'lates  on,  I  reckon." 

Here  Mr.  Harum  paused,  pinching  his  chin 
with  thumb  and  index  finger,  and  mumbling  his 
tobacco.  John,  who  had  listened  with  more  at 
tention  than  interest — wondering  the  while  as  to 
what  the  narrative  was  leading  up  to — thought 
something  might  properly  be  expected  of  him  to 
show  that  he  had  followed  it,  and  said,  "  So  Mrs. 
Cullom  has  kept  this  last  piece  clear,  has  she?  " 

"  No,"  said  David,  bringing  down  his  right 
hand  upon  the  desk  with  emphasis,  "  that's  jest 
what  she  hain't  done,  an'  that's  how  I  come  to 
tell  ye  somethin'  of  the  story,  an'  more  on't  'n 
you've  cared  about  hearin',  mebbe." 

"  Not  at  all,"  John  protested.  "  I  have  been 
very  much  interested." 

"You  have,  have  you?"  said  Mr.  Harum. 
"  Wa'al,  I  got  somethin'  I  want  ye  to  do.  Day 
after  to-morro'  's  Chris'mus,  an'  I  want  ye  to 
drop  Mis'  Cullom  a  line, somethin'  like  this,  'That 
Mr.  Harum  told  ye  to  say  that  that  morgidge 
he  holds,  havin'  ben  past  due  fer  some  time,  an' 
no  int'rist  havin'  ben  paid  fer,  let  me  see,  more'n 
a  year,  he  wants  to  close  the  matter  up,  an'  he'll 
see  her  Chris'mus  mornin'  at  the  bank  at  nine 
o'clock,  he  havin'  more  time  on  that  day;  but 
that,  as  fur  as  he  can  see,  the  bus'nis  won't  take 
very  long ' — somethin'  like  that,  you  under 
stand?" 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  John,  hoping  that  his 
employer  would  not  see  in  his  face  the  disgust 


152 


DAVID   HARUM. 


and  repugnance  he  felt  as  he  surmised  what  a 
scheme  was  on  foot,  and  recalled  what  he  had 
heard  of  Harum's  hard  and  unscrupulous  ways, 
though  he  had  to  admit  that  this,  excepting  per 
haps  the  episode  of  the  counterfeit  money,  was 
the  first  revelation  to  him  personally.  But  this 
seemed  very  bad  indeed. 

"  All  right,"  said  David  cheerfully,  "  I  s'pose 
it  won't  take  you  long  to  find  out  what's  in  your 
stockin',  an'  if  you  hain't  nothin'  else  to  do  Chris'- 
mus  mornin'  I'd  like  to  have  you  open  the  office 
and  stay  'round  a  spell  till  I  git  through  with 
Mis'  Cullom.  Mebbe  the'  '11  be  some  papers  to 
fill  out  or  witniss  or  somethin';  an'  have  that 
skeezicks  of  a  boy  make  up  the  fires  so'st  the 
place'll  be  warm." 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  said  John,  hoping  that  the 
interview  was  at  an  end. 

But  the  elder  man  sat  for  some  minutes  ap 
parently  in  a  brown  study,  and  occasionally  a 
smile  of  sardonic  cunning  wrinkled  his  face.  At 
last  he  said:  "  I've  told  ye  so  much  that  I  may 
as  well  tell  ye  how  I  come  by  that  morgidge. 
'Twont  take  but  a  minute,  an'  then  you  can  run 
an'  play,"  he  added  with  a  chuckle. 

"  I  trust  I  have  not  betrayed  any  impa 
tience,"  said  John,  and  instantly  conscious  of  his 
infelicitous  expression,  added  hastily,  "  I  have  re 
ally  been  very  much  interested." 

11  Oh,  no,"  was  the  reply,  "  you  hain't  betrayed 
none,  but  I  know  old  fellers  like  me  gen'rally  tell 
a  thing  twice  over  while  they're  at  it.  Wa'al," 
he  went  on,  "  it  was  like  this.  After  Charley 
Cullom  got  to  be  some  grown  he  helped  to  keep 
the  pot  a-bilin',  'n  they  got  on  some  better.  'Bout 
seven  year  ago,  though,  he  up  an'  got  married, 


DAVID    HARUM.  153 

an*  then  the  fat  ketched  fire.  Finally  he  allowed 
that  if  he  had  some  money  he'd  go  West  'n  take 
up  some  land,  'n  git  along  like  pussly  'n  a  flower 
gard'n.  He  ambitioned  that  if  his  mother  'd 
raise  a  thousan'  dollars  on  her  place  he'd  be  sure 
to  take  care  of  the  int'rist,  an'  prob'ly  pay  off 
the  princ'ple  in  almost  no  time.  Wa'al,  she  done 
it,  an'  off  he  went.  She  didn't  come  to  me  fer 
the  money,  because — I  dunno — at  any  rate  she 
didn't,  but  got  it  of  'Zeke  Swinney. 

"  Wa'al,  it  turned  out  jest  's  any  fool  might 
Ve  predilictid,  fer  after  the  first  year,  when  I 
reckon  he  paid  it  out  of  the  thousan',  Charley 
never  paid  no  int'rist.  The  second  year  he  was 
jest  gettin'  goin',  an'  the  next  year  he  lost  a  hoss 
jest  as  he  was  cal'latin'  to  pay,  an'  the  next  year 
the  grasshoppers  smote  him,  'n  so  on;  an'  the 
outcome  was  that  at  the  end  of  five  years,  when 
the  morgidge  had  one  year  to  run,  Charley'd 
paid  one  year,  an'  she'd  paid  one,  an'  she  stood 
to  owe  three  years'  int'rist.  How  old  Swinney 
come  to  hold  off  so  was  that  she  used  to  pay  the 
cuss  ten  dollars  or  so  ev'ry  six  months  'n  git  no 
credit  fer  it,  an'  no  receipt  an'  no  witniss,  'n  he 
knowed  the  prop'ty  was  improving  all  the  time. 
He  may  have  had  another  reason,  but  at  any  rate 
he  let  her  run,  and  got  the  shave  reg'lar.  But 
at  the  time  I'm  tellin'  you  about  he'd  begun  to 
cut  up,  an'  allowed  that  if  she  didn't  settle  up  the 
int'rist  he'd  foreclose,  an'  I  got  wind  on't  an'  I 
run  across  her  one  day  an'  got  to  talkin'  with  her, 
an'  she  gin  me  the  hull  narration.  *  How  much 
do  you  owe  the  old  critter? '  I  says.  '  A  hunderd 
an'  eighty  dollars/  she  says,  *  an'  where  I'm  goin' 
to  git  it,'  she  says,  '  the  Lord  only  knows.'  '  An' 
He  won't  tell  ye,  I  reckon,'  I  says.  Wa'al,  of 


DAVID   HARUM. 

course  I'd  known  that  Swinney  had  a  morgidge 
because  it  was  a  matter  of  record,  an'  I  knowed 
him  well  enough  to  give  a  guess  what  his  game 
was  goin'  to  be,  an'  more'n  that  I'd  had  my  eye 
on  that  piece  an'  parcel  an'  I  figured  that  he 
wa'n't  any  likelier  a  citizen  'n  I  was."  ("  Yes," 
said  John  to  himself,  "  where  the  carcase  is  the 
vultures  are  gathered  together.") 

"  '  Wa'al/  I  says  to  her,  after  we'd  had  a  little 
more  talk,  '  s'posen  you  come  'round  to  my  place 
to-morro'  'bout  'leven  o'clock,  an'  mebbe  we  c'n 
cipher  this  thing  out.  I  don't  say  positive  that 
we  kin/  I  says,  '  but  mebbe,  mebbe.'  So  that 
afternoon  I  sent  over  to  the  county  seat  an'  got 
a  description  an'  had  a  second  morgidge  drawed 
up  fer  two  hundred  dollars,  an'  Mis'  Cullom 
signed  it  mighty  quick.  I  had  the  morgidge 
made  one  day  after  date,  'cause,  as  I  said  to  her,  it 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  temp'rary  loan,  but  she 
was  so  tickled  she'd  have  signed  most  anythin' 
at  that  pertic'ler  time.  '  Now/  I  says  to  her, 
'  you  go  an'  settle  with  old  Step-an'-fetch-it,  but 
don't  you  say  a  word  where  you  got  the  money/ 
I  says.  '  Don't  ye  let  on  nothin' — stretch  that 
conscience  o'  your'n  if  nes'sary/  I  says,  '  an'  be 
pertic'ler  if  he  asks  you  if  Dave  Harum  give  ye 
the  money  you  jest  say,  "  No,  he  didn't."  That 
wont  be  no  lie/  I  says,  '  because  I  aint  givin'  it 
to  ye/  I  says.  Wa'al,  she  done  as  I  told  her.  Of 
course  Swinney  suspicioned  fust  off  that  I  was 
mixed  up  in  it,  but  she  stood  him  off  so  fair  an' 
square  that  he  didn't  know  jest  what  to  think,  but 
his  claws  was  cut  fer  a  spell,  anyway. 

"  Wa'al,  things  went  on  fer  a  while,  till  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  I  ought  to  relieve  Swin 
ney  of  some  of  his  anxieties  about  worldly  bus'nis, 


DAVID   HARUM.  155 

an*  I  dropped  in  on  him  one  mornin'  an'  passed 
the  time  o'  day,  an'  after  we'd  eased  up  our  minds 
on  the  subjects  of  each  other's  health  an'  such 
like  I  .says,  '  You  hold  a  morgidge  on  the  Widder 
Cullom's  place,  don't  ye?'  Of  course  he 
couldn't  say  nothin'  but  *  yes.'  '  Does  she  keep 
up  the  int'rist  all  right?'  I  says.  '  I  don't  want 
to  be  pokin'  my  nose  into  your  bus'nis,'  I  says, 
'  an'  don't  tell  me  nothin'  you  don't  want  to.' 
Wa'al,  he  knowed  Dave  Harum  was  Dave 
Harum,  an'  that  he  might  's  well  spit  it  out,  an* 
he  says,  '  Wa'al,  she  didn't  pay  nothin'  fer  a  good 
while,  but  last  time  she  forked  over  the  hull 
amount.  '  But  I  hain't  no  notion,'  he  says,  '  that 
she'll  come  to  time  agin.'  '  An'  s'posin'  she 
don't,'  I  says,  '  you'll  take  the  prop'ty,  won't  ye? ' 
'  Don't  see  no  other  way,'  he  says,  an'  lookin'  up 

?uick,  '  unless  you  over-bid  me,'  he  says.     '  No/ 
says,  '  I  ain't  buyin'  no  real  estate  jest  now,  but 
the  thing  I  come  in  fer,'  I  says,  '  leavin'  out  the 
pleasure  of  havin'  a  talk  with  you,  was  to  say  that 
I'd  take  that  morgidge  off'm  your  hands.' 

"Wa'al,  sir,  he,  he,  he,  he!      Scat  my ! 

At  that  he  looked  at  me  fer  a  minute  with  his 
jaw  on  his  neck,  an'  then  he  hunched  himself, 
'n  drawed  in  his  neck  like  a  mud  turtle.  '  No/ 
he  says,  '  I  ain't  sufferin'  fer  the  money,  an'  I 
guess  I'll  keep  the  morgidge.  It's  putty  near 
due  now,  but  mebbe  I'll  let  it  run  a  spell.  I 
guess  the  secur'ty's  good  fer  it.'  '  Yes/  I  says, 
'  I  reckon  you'll  let  it  run  long  enough  fer  the 
widder  to  pay  the  taxes  on't  once  more  anyhow; 
I  guess  the  secur'ty's  good  enough  to  take  that 
resk;  but  how  'bout  my  secur'ty?'  I  says.  'What 
d'you  mean?'  he  says.  'I  mean/  says  I,  'that 
I've  got  a  second  morgidge  on  that  prop'ty,  SLD? 


156 


DAVID   HARUM. 


I  begin  to  tremble  fer  my  secur'ty.  You've  jest 
told  me/  I  says,  '  that  you're  goin'  to  foreclose 
an'  I  cal'late  to  protect  myself,  an'  I  don't  car- 
late,'  I  says,  '  to  have  to  go  an'  bid  on  that 
prop'ty,  an'  put  in  a  lot  more  money  to  save  my 
investment,  unless  I'm  'bleeged  to — not  much! 
an'  you  can  jest  sign  that  morgidge  over  to  me, 
an'  the  sooner  the  quicker,'  I  says." 

David  brought  his  hand  down  on  his  thigh 
with  a  vigorous  slap,  the  fellow  of  the  one  which, 
John  could  imagine,  had  emphasized  his  demand 
upon  Swinney.  The  story,  to  which  he  had  at  first 
listened  with  polite  patience  merely,  he  had  found 
more  interesting  as  it  went  on,  and,  excusing 
himself,  he  brought  up  a  stool,  and  mounting  it, 
said,  "  And  what  did  Swinney  say  to  that?  "  Mr. 
Harum  emitted  a  gurgling  chuckle,  yawned  his 
quid  out  of  his  mouth,  tossing  it  over  his  shoulder 
in  the  general  direction  of  the  waste  basket,  and 
bit  off  the  end  of  a  cigar  which  he  found  by  slap 
ping  his  waistcoat  pockets.  John  got  down  and 
fetched  him  a  match,  which  he  scratched  in  the 
vicinity  of  his  hip  pocket,  lighted  his  cigar  (John 
declining  to  join  him  on  some  plausible  pretext, 
having  on  a  previous  occasion  accepted  one  of 
the  brand),  and  after  rolling  it  around  with  his 
lips  and  tongue  to  the  effect  that  the  lighted  end 
described  sundry  eccentric  curves,  located  it 
firmly  with  an  upward  angle  in  the  left-hand  cor 
ner  of  his  mouth,  gave  it  a  couple  of  vigorous 
puffs,  and  replied  to  John's  question. 

"  Wa'al,  'Zeke  Swinney  was  a  perfesser  of  re 
ligion  some  years  ago,  an'  mebbe  he  is  now, 
but  what  he  said  to  me  on  this  pertic'ler  occasion 
was  that  he'd  see  me  in  hell  fust,  an'  then  he 
wouldn't. 


DAVID   HARUM.  157 

" '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  mebbe  you  won't,  mebbe 
you  will,  it's  alwus  a  pleasure  to  meet  ye/  I  says, 
'  but  in  that  case  this  morgidge  bus'nis  '11  be  a 
question  fer  our  executors/  I  says,  '  fer  you  don't 
never  foreclose  that  morgidge,  an'  don't  you  fer- 
git  it/  I  says. 

; '  Oh,  you'd  like  to  git  holt  o'  that  prop'ty 
yourself.  I  see  what  you're  up  to/  he  says. 

"  '  Look  a-here,  'Zeke  Swinney/  I  says,  '  I've 
got  an  int'rist  in  that  prop'ty,  an'  I  propose  to 
p'tect  it.  You're  goin'  to  sign  that  morgidge 
over  to  me,  or  I'll  foreclose  and  surrygate  ye/  I 
says,  *  unless  you  allow  to  bid  in  the  prop'ty,  in 
which  case  we'll  see  whose  weasel-skin's  the  long 
est.  But  I  guess  it  won't  come  to  that/  I  says. 
'  You  kin  take  your  choice/  I  says.  '  Whether 
I  want  to  git  holt  o'  that  prop'ty  myself  ain't 
neither  here  nor  there.  Mebbe  I  do,  an'  mebbe 
I  don't,  but  anyways/  I  says,  '  you  don't  git  it, 
nor  wouldn't  ever,  for  if  I  can't  make  you  sign 
over,  I'll  either  do  what  I  said  or  I'll  back  the 
widder  in  a  defence  fer  usury.  Put  that  in  your 
pipe  an'  smoke  it/  I  says. 

"'What  do  you  mean?'  he  says,  gittin'  half 
out  his  chair. 

"  '  I  mean  this/  I  says,  '  that  the  fust  six 
months  the  widder  couldn't  pay  she  gin  you  ten 
dollars  to  hold  off,  an'  the  next  time  she  gin 
you  fifteen,  an'  that  you've  bled  her  fer  shaves  to 
the  tune  of  sixty  odd  dollars  in  three  years,  an' 
then  got  your  int'rist  in  full.' 

"  That  riz  him  clean  out  of  his  chair,"  said 
David.  "  '  She  can't  prove  it/  he  says,  shakin' 
his  fist  in  the  air. 

'  Oh,  ho!  ho! '  I  says,  tippin'  my  chair  back 
agin  the  wall.     '  If  Mis'  Cullom  was  to  swear 


DAVID    HARUM. 

how  an'  where  she  paid  you  the  money,  givin' 
chapter  an'  verse,  and  showin'  her  own  mem'ran- 
dums  even,  an'  I  was  to  swear  that  when  I  twitted 
you  with  gittin'  it  you  didn't  deny  it,  but  only 
said  that  she  couldn't  prove  it,  how  long  do  you 
think  it  'ould  take  a  Freeland  County  jury  to 
find  agin  ye?  I  allow,  'Zeke  Swinney,'  I  says, 
'  that  you  wa'n't  born  yestid'y,  but  you  ain't  so 
old  as  you  look,  not  by  a  dum  sight!'  an'  then 
how  I  did  laugh! 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  as  he  got  down  off  the 
stool  and  stretched  himself,  yawning,  "  I  guess 
I've  yarned  it  enough  fer  one  day.  Don't  fergit 
to  send  Mis'  Cullom  that  notice,  an'  make  it  up 
an'  up.  I'm  goin'  to  git  the  thing  off  my  mind 
this  trip." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  John,  "  but  let  me  ask, 
did  Swinney  assign  the  mortgage  without  any 
trouble  ?" 

"O  Lord!  yes,"  was  the  reply.  'The' 
wa'n't  nothin'  else  fer  him  to  do.  I  had  another 
twist  on  him  that  I  hain't  mentioned.  But  he 
put  up  a  great  show  of  doin'  it  to  obleege  me. 
Wa'al,  I  thanked  him  an'  so  on,  an'  when  we'd 
got  through  I  ast  him  if  he  wouldn't  step  over  to 
the  '  Eagil '  an'  take  somethin',  an'  he  looked  kind 
o'  shocked  an'  said  he  never  drinked  nothin'.  It 
was  'gin  his  princ'ples,  he  said.  Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho! 

Scat  my  !  Princ'ples!"  and  John  heard 

him  chuckling  to  himself  all  the  way  out  of  the 
office. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

CONSIDERING  John's  relations  with  David 
Harum,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  wish  to 
think  as  well  of  him  as  possible,  and  he  had  not 
(or  thought  he  had  not)  allowed  his  mind  to  be 
influenced  by  the  disparaging  remarks  and  in 
sinuations  whit h  had  been  made  to  him,  or  in  his 
presence,  concerning  his  employer.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  form  his  opinion  upon  his 
own  experience  with  the  man,  and  so  far  it  had 
not  only  been  pleasant  but  favorable,  and  far 
from  justifying  the  half-jeering,  half-malicious, 
talk  that  had  come  to  his  ears.  It  had  been 
made  manifest  to  him,  it  was  true,  that  David 
was  capable  of  a  sharp  bargain  in  certain  lines,  but 
it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  more  for  the  pleas 
ure  of  matching  his  wits  against  another's  than 
for  any  gain  involved.  Mr.  Harum  was  an  experi 
enced  and  expert  horseman,  who  delighted  above 
all  things  in  dealing  in  and  trading  horses,  and 
John  soon  discovered  that,  in  that  community  at 
least,  to  get  the  best  of  a  "  hoss-trade  "  by  al 
most  any  means  was  considered  a  venial  sin,  if 
a  sin  at  all,  and  the  standards  of  ordinary  busi 
ness  probity  were  not  expected  to  govern  those 
transactions. 

David  had  said  to  him  once  when  he  sus 
pected  that  John's  ideas  might  have  sustained 


DAVID    HARUM. 

something  of  a  shock,  "  A  hoss-trade  ain't  like 
anythin'  else.  A  feller  may  be  straighter  'n  a 
string  in  ev'rythin'  else,  an'  never  tell  the  truth 
— that  is,  the  hull  truth — about  a  hoss.  I  trade 
hosses  with  hoss-traders.  They  all  think  they 
know  as  much  as  I  do,  an5  I  dunno  but  what  they 
do.  They  hain't  learnt  no  diff'rent  anyway,  an' 
they've  had  chances  enough.  If  a  feller  come 
to  me  that  didn't  think  he  knowed  anythin'  about 
a  hoss,  an'  wanted  to  buy  on  the  square,  he'd 
git,  fur's  I  knew,  square  treatment.  At  any  rate 
I'd  tell  him  all  't  I  knew.  But  when  one  o'  them 
smart  Alecks  comes  along  and  cal'lates  to  do  up 
old  Dave,  why  he's  got  to  take  his  chances,  that's 
all.  An'  mind  ye,"  asserted  David,  shaking  his 
forefinger  impressively,  "  it  ain't  only  them  fel 
lers.  I've  ben  wuss  stuck  two  three  time  by 
church  members  in  good  standin'  than  anybody 
I  ever  dealed  with.  Take  old  Deakin  Perkins. 
He's  a  terrible  feller  fer  church  bus'nis;  c'n  pray 
an'  psalm-sing  to  beat  the  Jews,  an'  in  spiritual 
matters  c'n  read  his  title  clear  the  hull  time,  but 
when  it  comes  to  hoss-tradin'  you  got  to  git  up 
very  early  in  the  mornin'  or  he'll  skin  the  eye- 
teeth  out  of  ye.  Yes,  sir!  Scat  my !  I  be 
lieve  the  old  critter  makes  hosses!  But  the 
deakin,"  added  David,  "he,  he,  he,  he!  the 
deakin  hain't  hardly  spoke  to  me  fer  some  con- 
sid'able  time,  the  deakin  hain't.  He,  he,  he! 

"  Another  thing,"  he  went  on,  "  the'  ain't  no 
gamble  like  a  hoss.  You  may  think  you  know 
him  through  an'  through,  an'  fust  thing  you 
know  he'll  be  cuttin'  up  a  lot  o'  didos  right  out 
o'  nothin'.  It  stands  to  reason  that  sometimes 
you  let  a  hoss  go  all  on  the  square — as  you  know 
him — an'  the  feller  that  gits  him  don't  know  how 


DAVID   HARUM.  l6l 

to  hitch  him  or  treat  him,  an'  he  acts  like  a 
diff'rent  hoss,  an'  the  feller  allows  you  swindled 
him.  You  see,  hosses  gits  used  to  places  an* 
ways  to  a  certain  extent,  an'  when  they're 
changed,  why  they're  apt  to  act  diff'rent.  Hosses 
don't  know  but  dreadful  little,  really.  Talk 
about  hoss  sense — wa'al,  the'  ain't  no  such  thing." 

Thus  spoke  David  on  the  subject  of  his  fa 
vorite  pursuit  and  pastime,  and  John  thought 
then  that  he  could  understand  and  condone  some 
things  he  had  seen  and  heard,  at  which  at  first  he 
was  inclined  to  look  askance.  But  this  matter 
of  the  Widow  Cullom's  was  a  different  thing,  and 
as  he  realized  that  he  was  expected  to  play  a  part, 
though  a  small  one,  in  it,  his  heart  sank  within 
him  that  he  had  so  far  cast  his  fortunes  upon 
the  good  will  of  a  man  who  could  plan  and  carry 
out  so  heartless  and  cruel  an  undertaking  as  that 
which  had  been  revealed  to  him  that  after 
noon.  He  spent  the  evening  in  his  room  trying 
to  read,  but  the  widow's  affairs  persistently  thrust 
themselves  upon  his  thoughts.  All  the  unpleas 
ant  stories  he  had  heard  of  David  came  to  his 
mind,  and  he  remembered  with  misgiving  some 
things  which  at  the  time  had  seemed  regular  and 
right  enough,  but  which  took  on  a  different  color 
in  the  light  in  which  he  found  himself  recalling 
them.  He  debated  with  himself  whether  he 
should  not  decline  to  send  Mrs.  Cullom  the  no 
tice  as  he  had  been  instructed,  and  left  it  an 
open  question  when  he  went  to  bed. 

He  wakened  somewhat  earlier  than  usual  to 
find  that  the  thermometer  had  gone  up,  and  the 
barometer  down.  The  air  was  full  of  a  steady 
downpour,  half  snow,  half  rain,  about  the  most 
disheartening  combination  which  the  worst  cli- 


DAVID   HARUM. 

mate  in  the  world — that  of  central  New  York — 
can  furnish.  He  passed  rather  a  busy  day  in  the 
office  in  an  atmosphere  redolent  of  the  unsavory 
odors  raised  by  the  proximity  of  wet  boots  and 
garments  to  the  big  cylinder  stove  outside  the 
counter,  a  compound  of  stale  smells  from  kitchen 
and  stable. 

After  the  bank  closed  he  dispatched  Peleg 
Hopkins,  the  office  boy,  with  the  note  for  Mrs. 
Cullom.  He  had  abandoned  his  half-formed  in 
tention  to  revolt,  but  had  made  the  note  not  only 
as  little  peremptory  as  was  compatible  with  a 
clear  intimation  of  its  purport  as  he  understood 
it,  but  had  yielded  to  a  natural  impulse  in  begin 
ning  it  with  an  expression  of  personal  regret — a 
blunder  which  cost  him  no  little  chagrin  in  the 
outcome. 

Peleg  Hopkins  grumbled  audibly  when  he 
was  requested  to  build  the  fires  on  Christmas 
day,  and  expressed  his  opinion  that  "  if  there 
warn't  Bible  agin  workin'  on  Chris'mus,  the'  'd 
ort  ter  be  " ;  but  when  John  opened  the  door  of 
the  bank  that  morning  he  found  the  temperature 
in  comfortable  contrast  to  the  outside  air.  The 
weather  had  changed  again,  and  a  blinding  snow 
storm,  accompanied  by  a  buffeting  gale  from  the 
northwest,  made  it  almost  impossible  to  see  a 
path  and  to  keep  it.  In  the  central  part  of  the 
town  some  tentative  efforts  had  been  made  to 
open  walks,  but  these  were  apparent  only  as 
slight  and  tortuous  depressions  in  the  depths  of 
snow.  In  the  outskirts  the  unfortunate  pedes 
trian  had  to  wade  to  the  knees. 

As  John  went  behind  the  counter  his  eye 
was  at  once  caught  by  a  small  parcel  lying  on 
his  desk,  of  white  note  paper,  tied  with  a  cot- 


DAVID   HARUM.  163 

ton  string,  which  he  found  to  be  addressed, 
"  Mr.  John  Lenox,  Esq.,  Present,"  and  as  he 
took  it  up  it  seemed  heavy  for  its  size. 

Opening  it,  he  found  a  tiny  stocking,  knit 
of  white  wool,  to  which  was  pinned  a  piece  of 
paper  with  the  legend,  "  A  Merry  Christmas 
from  Aunt  Polly."  Out  of  the  stocking  fell  a 
packet  fastened  with  a  rubber  strap.  Inside  were 
five  ten-dollar  gold  pieces  and  a  slip  of  paper 
on  which  was  written,  "  A  Merry  Christmas 
from  Your  Friend  David  Harum."  For  a  mo 
ment  John's  face  burned,  and  there  was  a  curious 
smarting  of  the  eyelids  as  he  held  the  little  stock 
ing  and  its  contents  in  his  hand.  Surely  the 
hand  that  had  written  "  Your  Friend  "  on  that 
scrap  of  paper  could  not  be  the  hand  of  an 
oppressor  of  widows  and  orphans.  "  This,"  said 
John  to  himself,  "  is  what  he  meant  when  '  he 
supposed  it  wouldn't  take  me  long  to  find  out 
what  was  in  my  stocking.' " 

The  door  opened  and  a  blast  and  whirl  of 
wind  and  snow  rushed  in,  ushering  the  tall,  bent 
form  of  the  Widow  Cullom.  The  drive  of  the 
wind  was  so  strong  that  John  vaulted  over  the 
low  cash  counter  to  push  the  door  shut  again. 
The  poor  woman  was  white  with  snow  from  the 
front  of  her  old  worsted  hood  to  the  bottom  of 
her  ragged  skirt. 

"  You  are  Mrs.  Cullom?  "  said  John.  "  Wait 
a  moment  till  I  brush  off  the  snow,  and  then 
come  to  the  fire  in  the  back  room.  Mr.  Harum 
will  be  in  directly,  I  expect." 

"Be  I  much  late?"  she  asked.  "I  made  's 
much  haste  's  I  could.  It  don't  appear  to  me  's 
if  I  ever  see  a  blusteriner  day,  Jn  I  ain't  as  strong 


164 


DAVID   HARUM. 


as  I  used  to  be.  Seemed  as  if  I  never  would  git 
here." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  John,  as  he  established  her  be 
fore  the  glowing  grate  of  the  Franklin  stove  in 
the  bank  parlor,  "  not  at  all.  Mr.  Harum  has 
not  come  in  himself  yet.  Shall  you  mind  if  I 
excuse  myself  a  moment  while  you  make  yourself 
as  comfortable  as  possible?  "  She  did  not  appar 
ently  hear  him.  She  was  trembling  from  head  to 
foot  with  cold  and  fatigue  and  nervous  excite 
ment.  Her  dress  was  soaked  to  the  knees,  and  as 
she  sat  down  and  put  up  her  feet  to  the  fire  John 
saw  a  bit  of  a  thin  cotton  stocking  and  her  de 
plorable  shoes,  almost  in  a  state  of  pulp.  A  snow- 
obliterated  path  led  from  the  back  door  of  the 
office  to  David's  house,  and  John  snatched  his  hat 
and  started  for  it  on  a  run.  As  he  stamped  off 
some  of  the  snow  on  the  veranda  the  door  was 
opened  for  him  by  Mrs.  Bixbee.  "  Lord  sakes!  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  What  on  earth  be  you  cavortin' 
'round  for  such  a  mornin'  's  this  without  no  over 
coat,  an'  on  a  dead  run?  What's  the  matter?" 

"  Nothing  serious,"  he  answered,  "  but  I'm 
in  a  great  hurry.  Old  Mrs.  Cullom  has  walked 
up  from  her  house  to  the  office,  and  she  is  wet 
through  and  almost  perished.  I  thought  you'd 
send  her  some  dry  shoes  and  stockings,  and  an 
old  shawl  or  blanket  to  keep  her  wet  skirt  off 
her  knees,  and  a  drop  of  whisky  or  something. 
She's  all  of  a  tremble,  and  I'm  afraid  she  will 
have  a  chill." 

"Certain!  certain!"  said  the  kind  creature, 
and  she  bustled  out  of  the  room,  returning  in  a 
minute  or  two  with  an  armful  of  comforts. 
"  There's  a  pair  of  bedroom  slips  lined  with 
lamb's  wool,  an'  a  pair  of  woolen  stockin's,  an'  a 


DAVID   HARUM.  165 

blanket  shawl.  This  here  petticut,  't  ain't  what 
ye'd  call  bran'  new,  but  it's  warm  and  comf  table, 
an'  I  don't  believe  she's  got  much  of  anythin'  on 
'ceptin'  her  dress,  an'  I'll  git  ye  the  whisky,  but " 
— here  she  looked  deprecatingly  at  John — "  it 
ain't  gen'ally  known  't  we  keep  the  stuff  in  the 
house.  I  don't  know  as  it's  right,  but  though 
David  don't  hardly  ever  touch  it  he  will  have  it 
in  the  house." 

"  Oh,"  said  John,  laughing,  "  you  may  trust 
my  discretion,  and  we'll  swear  Mrs.  Cullom  to 
secrecy." 

"  Wa'al,  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  joining 
in  the  laugh  as  she  brought  the  bottle;  "  jest  a 
minute  till  I  make  a  passel  of  the  things  to  keep 
the  snow  out.  There,  now,  I  guess  you're  fixed, 
an'  you  kin  hurry  back  'fore  she  ketches  a 
chill." 

"  Thanks  very  much,"  said  John  as  he  started 
away.  "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  besides 
'  Merry  Christmas,'  but  I  must  wait  till  another 
time."" 

When  John  got  back  to  the  office  David  had 
just  preceded  him. 

"  Wa'al,  wa'al,"  he  was  saying,  "  but  you  be 
in  a  putty  consid'able  state.  Hullo,  John!  what 
you  got  there?  Wa'al,  you  air  the  stuff!  Slips, 
blanket-shawl,  petticut,  stockin's — wa'al,  you  an' 
Polly  ben  puttin'  your  heads  together,  I  guess. 

What's  that?  Whisky!  Wa'al,  scat  my !  I 

didn't  s'pose  wild  hosses  would  have  drawed  it 
out  o'  Polly  to  let  on  the'  was  any  in  the  house, 
much  less  to  fetch  it  out.  Jest  the  thing!  Oh, 
yes  ye  are,  Mis'  Cullom — jest  a  mouthful  with 
water,"  taking  the  glass  from  John,  "  jest  a 
spoonful  to  git  your  blood  a-goin',  an'  then  Mr. 


DAVID  HARUM. 


Lenox  an'  me  '11  go  into  the  front  room  while 
you  make  yourself  comf'table." 

"  Consarn  it  all  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Harum  as 
they  stood  leaning  against  the  teller's  counter, 
facing  the  street,  '"  I  didn't  cal'late  to  have  Mis' 
Cullom  hoof  it  up  here  the  way  she  done.  When 
I  see  what  kind  of  a  day  it  was  I  went  out  to 
the  barn  to  have  the  cutter  hitched  an'  send  for 
her,  an'  I  found  ev'rythin'  topsy-turvy.  That 
dum'd  uneasy  sorril  colt  had  got  cast  in  the  stall, 
an'  I  ben  fussin'  with  him  ever  since.  I  clean  for 
got  all  'bout  Mis'  Cullom  till  jest  now." 

"  Is  the  colt  much  injured?  "  John  asked. 

"  Wa'al,  he  won't  trot  a  twenty  gait  in  some 
time,  I  reckon,"  replied  David.  "  He's  wrenched 
his  shoulder  some,  an'  mebbe  strained  his  inside. 
Don't  seem  to  take  no  int'rist  in  his  feed,  an' 
that's  a  bad  sign.  Consarn  a  hoss,  anyhow!  If 
they're  wuth  anythin'  they're  more  bother  'n  a 
teethin'  baby.  Alwus  some  dum  thing  ailin'  'em,. 
an'  I  took  consid'able  stock  in  that  colt  too,"  he 
added  regretfully,  "  an'  I  could  'a'  got  putty  near 
what  I  was  askin'  fer  him  last  week,  an'  putty 
near  what  he  was  wuth,  an'  I've  noticed  that 
most  gen'ally  alwus  when  I  let  a  good  offer  go 
like  that,  some  cussed  thing  happens  to  the  hoss. 
It  ain't  a  bad  idee,  in  the  hoss  bus'nis  anyway,  to 
be  willin'  to  let  the  other  feller  make  a  dollar 
once  'n  a  while." 

After  that  aphorism  they  waited  in  silence  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  then  David  called  out  over  his 
shoulder,  "  How  be  you  gettin'  along,  Mis'  Cul 
lom?" 

"  I  guess  I'm  fixed,"  she  answered,  and  David 
walked  slowly  back  into  the  parlor,  leaving  John 
in  the  front  office.  He  was  annoyed  to  realize 


DAVID   HARUM.  ^ 

that  in  the  bustle  over  Mrs.  Cullom  and  what  fol 
lowed,  he  had  forgotten  to  acknowledge  the 
Christmas  gift;  but,  hoping  that  Mr.  Harum  had 
been  equally  oblivious,  promised  himself  to  repair 
the  omission  later  on.  He  would  have  preferred 
to  go  out  and  leave  the  two  to  settle  their  affair 
without  witness  or  hearer,  but  his  employer,  who, 
as  he  had  found,  usually  had  a  reason  for  his  ac 
tions,  had  explicitly  requested  him  to  remain,  and 
he  had  no  choice.  He  perched  himself  upon  one 
of  the  office  stools  and  composed  himself  to  await 
the  conclusion  of  the  affair. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MRS.  CULLOM  was  sitting  at  one  corner  of 
the  fire,  and  David  drew  a  chair  opposite  to  her. 

"  Feelin'  all  right  now?  whisky  hain't  made 
ye  liable  to  no  disorderly  conduct,  has  it?  "  he 
asked  with  a  laugh. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  was  the  reply,  "  the  warm 
things  are  real  comfortin',  'n'  I  guess  I  hain't  had 
licker  enough  to  make  me  want  to  throw  things. 
You  got  a  kind  streak  in  ye,  Dave  Harum,  if 
you  did  send  me  this  here  note — but  I  s'ppse  ye 
know  your  own  bus'nis,"  she  added  with  a  sigh 
of  resignation.  "  I  ben  fearin'  fer  a  good  while 
't  I  couldn't  hold  on  t'  that  prop'ty,  an'  I  don't 
know  but  what  you  might's  well  git  it  as  'Zeke 
Swinney,  though  I  ben  hopin'  'gainst  hope  that 
Charley  'd  be  able  to  do  more  'n  he  has." 

"  Let's  see  the  note,"  said  David  curtly. 
"  H'm,  humph,  '  regret  to  say  that  I  have  been 
instructed  by  Mr.  Harum ' — wa'al,  h'm'm,  cal'- 
lated  to  clear  his  own  skirts  anyway — h'm'm — 
'  must  be  closed  up  without  further  delay'  (John's 
eye  caught  the  little  white  stocking  which  still 
lay  on  his  desk) — wa'al,  yes,  that's  about  what  I 
told  Mr.  Lenox  to  say  fur's  the  bus'nis  part's 
concerned — I  might  'a'  done  my  own  regrettin' 
if  I'd  wrote  the  note  myself."  (John  said  some 
thing  to  himself.)  "  'T  ain't  the  pleasantest  thing 

168 


DAVID   HARUM.  l6<) 

in  the  world  fer  ye,  I  allow,  but  then  you  see, 
bus'nis  is  bus'nis." 

John  heard  David  clear  his  throat,  and  there 
was  a  hiss  in  the  open  fire.  Mrs.  Cullom  was 
silent,  and  David  resumed: 

"  You  see,  Mis'  Cullom,  it's  like  this.  I  ben 
thinkin'  of  this  matter  fer  a  good  while.  That 
place  ain't  ben  no  real  good  to  ye  sence  the  first 
year  you  signed  that  morgidge.  You  hain't 
scurcely  more'n  made  ends  meet,  let  alone  the 
int'rist,  an'  it's  ben  simply  a  question  o'  time,  an* 
who'd  git  the  prop'ty  in  the  long  run  fer  some 
years.  I  reckoned,  same  as  you  did,  that  Char 
ley  'd  mebbe  come  to  the  front — but  he  hain't 
done  it,  an'  't  ain't  likely  he  ever  will.  Charley's 
a  likely  'nough  boy  some  ways,  but  he  hain't  got 
much  '  git  there '  in  his  make-up,  not  more'n 
enough  fer  one  anyhow,  I  reckon.  That's  about 
the  size  on't,  ain't  it?" 

Mrs.  Cullom  murmured  a  feeble  admission 
that  she  was  "  'fraid  it  was." 

"  Wa'al,"  resumed  Mr.  Harum,  "  I  see  how 
things  was  goin',  an'  I  see  that  unless  I  played 
euchre,  'Zeke  Swinney  'd  git  that  prop'ty,  an' 
whether  I  wanted  it  myself  or  not,  I  didn't  car- 
late  he  sh'd  git  it  anyway.  He  put  a  spoke  in 
my  wheel  once,  an'  I  hain't  forgot  it.  But  that 
hain't  neither  here  nor  there.  Wa'al,"  after  a 
short  pause,  "  you  know  I  helped  ye  pull  the 
thing  along  on  the  chance,  as  ye  may  say,  that 
you  an'  your  son  'd  somehow  make  a  go  on't." 

"  You  ben  very  kind,  so  fur,"  said  the  widow 
faintly. 

"  Don't  ye  say  that,  don't  ye  say  that,"  pro 
tested  David.  '  'T  wa'n't  no  kindness.  It  was 
jest  bus'nis.  I  wa'n't  takin'  no  chances,  an'  I 

12 


DAVID   HARUM. 


s'po*e  I  might  let  the  thing  run  a  spell  longer  if 
I  c'd  see  any  use  in't.  But  the'  ain't,  an'  so  I 
ast  ye  to  come  up  this  mornin'  so  't  we  c'd  settle 
the  thing  up  without  no  fuss,  nor  trouble,  nor 
lawyer's  fees,  nor  nothin'.  I've  got  the  papers 
all  drawed,  an'  John — Mr.  Lenox — here  to  take 
the  acknowlidgments.  You  hain't  no  objection 
to  windin'  the  thing  up  this  mornin',  have  ye?  " 

"  I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  do  whatever  you  say," 
replied  the  poor  woman  in  a  tone  of  hopeless  dis 
couragement,  "  an'  I  might  as  well  be  killed  to 
once,  as  to  die  by  inch  pieces." 

"  All  right  then,"  said  David  cheerfully,  ig 
noring  her  lethal  suggestion,  "  but  before  we  git 
down  to  bus'nis  an'  signin'  papers,  an'  in  order 
to  set  myself  in  as  fair  a  light  's  I  can  in  the 
matter,  I  want  to  tell  ye  a  little  story." 

"  I  hain't  no  objection  's  I  know  of,"  ac 
quiesced  the  widow  graciously. 

"  All  right,"  said  David,  "  I  won't  preach 
more  'n  about  up  to  the  sixthly — How'd  you  feel 
if  I  was  to  light  up  a  cigar?  I  hain't  much  of  a 
hand  at  a  yarn,  an'  if  I  git  stuck,  I  c'n  puff  a 
spell.  Thank  ye.  Wa'al,  Mis'  Cullom,  you  used 
to  know  somethin'  about  my  folks.  I  was 
raised  on  Buxton  Hill.  The'  was  nine  on  us, 
an'  I  was  the  youngest  o'  the  lot.  My  father 
farmed  a  piece  of  about  forty  to  fifty  acres,  an' 
had  a  small  shop  where  he  done  odd  times  small 
jobs  of  tinkerin'  fer  the  neighbors  when  the'  was 
anythin'  to  do.  My  mother  was  his  second,  an' 
I  was  the  only  child  of  that  marriage.  He  mar 
ried  agin  when  I  was  about  two  year  old,  an' 
how  I  ever  got  raised  's  more  'n  I  c'n  tell  ye. 
My  sister  Polly  was  'sponsible  more  'n  any  one,  I 
guess,  an'  the  only  one  o'  the  whole  lot  that  ever 


DAVID   HARUM. 


I/I 


gin  me  a  decent  word.  Small  farmin'  ain't  cal'- 
lated^to  fetch  out  the  best  traits  of  human  nature 
— an*  keep  'em  out — an'  it  seems  to  me  some 
times  that  when  the  old  man  wa'n't  cuffin'  my 
ears  he  was  lickin'  me  with  a  rawhide  or  a  strap. 
Fur  's  that  was  concerned,  all  his  boys  used  to 
ketch  it  putty  reg'lar  till  they  got  too  big.  One 
on  'em  up  an'  licked  him  one  night,  an'  lit  out 
next  day.  I  s'pose  the  old  man's  disposition  was 
sp'iled  by  what  some  feller  said  farmin'  was, 
'  workin'  all  day,  an'  doin'  chores  all  night/  anr 
larrupin'  me  an'  all  the  rest  on  us  was  about  all 
the  enjoyment  he  got.  My  brothers  an'  sis 
ters — 'ceptin'  of  Polly — was  putty  nigh  as  bad 
in  respect  of  cuffs  an'  such  like;  an'  my  step- 
marm  was,  on  the  hull,  the  wust  of  all.  She 
hadn't  no  childern  o'  her  own,  an'  it  appeared  's 
if  I  was  jest  pizen  to  her.  'T  wa'n't  so  much 
slappin'  an'  cuffin'  with  her  as  't  was  tongue. 
She  c'd  say  things  that  'd  jest  raise  a  blister  like 
pizen  ivy.  I  s'pose  I  was  about  as  ordinary,  no- 
account-lookin',  red-headed,  freckled  little  cuss  as 
you  ever  see,  an'  slinkin'  in  my  manners.  The 
air  of  our  home  circle  wa'n't  cal'lated  to  raise 
heroes  in. 

"  I  got  three  four  years'  schoolin',  an'  made 
out  to  read  an'  write  an'  cipher  up  to  long  divi 
sion  'fore  I  got  through,  but  after  I  got  to  be 
six  year  old,  school  or  no  school,  I  had  to  work 
reg'lar  at  anything  I  had  strength  fer,  an'  more 
too.  Chores  before  school  an'  after  school,  an' 
a  two-mile  walk  to  git  there.  As  fur  's  clo'es 
was  concerned,  any  old  thing  that  'd  hang  to 
gether  was  good  enough  fer  me ;  but  by  the  time 
the  older  boys  had  outgrowed  their  duds,  an*  they 
was  passed  on  to  me,  the'  wa'n't  much  left  on 


DAVID   HARUM. 


'em.  A  pair  of  old  cowhide  boots  that  leaked 
in  more  snow  an'  water  'n  they  kept  out,  an'  a 
couple  pairs  of  woolen  socks  that  was  putty  much 
all  darns,  was  expected  to  see  me  through  the 
winter,  an'  I  went  barefoot  f'm  the  time  the  snow 
was  off  the  ground  till  it  flew  agin  in  the  fall. 
The'  wa'n't  but  two  seasons  o'  the  year  with  me 
— them  of  chilblains  an'  stun-bruises." 

The  speaker  paused  and  stared  for  a  moment 
into  the  comfortable  glow  of  the  fire,  and  then 
discovering  to  his  apparent  surprise  that  his  cigar 
had  gone  out,  lighted  it  from  a  coal  picked  out 
with  the  tongs. 

"  Farmin'  's  a  hard  life,"  remarked  Mrs.  Cul- 
lom  with  an  air  of  being  expected  to  make  some 
contribution  to  the  conversation. 

"  An'  yit,  as  it  seems  to  me  as  I  look  back 
on't,"  David  resumed  pensively,  "  the  wust  on't 
was  that  nobody  ever  gin  me  a  kind  word,  'cept 
Polly.  I  s'pose  I  got  kind  o'  used  to  bein'  cold  an' 
tired;  dressin'  in  a  snowdrift  where  it  blowed  into 
the  attic,  an'  goin'  out  to  fodder  cattle  'fore  sun 
up;  pickin'  up  stun  in  the  blazin'  sun,  an'  doin' 
all  the  odd  jobs  my  father  set  me  to,  an'  the  older 
ones  shirked  onto  me.  That  was  the  reg'lar  or 
der  o'  things;  but  I  remember  I  never  did  git 
used  to  never  pleasin'  nobody.  'Course  I  didn't 
expect  nothin'  f'm  my  step-marm,an'  the  only  way 
I  ever  knowed  I'd  done  my  stent  fur  's  father  was 
concerned,  was  that  he  didn't  say  nothin'.  But 
sometimes  the  older  ones  'd  git  settin'  'round, 
talkin'  an'  laughin',  havin'  pop  corn  an'  apples, 
an'  that,  an'  I'd  kind  o'  sidle  up,  wantin'  to  join 
'em,  an'  some  on  'em  'd  say,  '  What  you  doin' 
here?  time  you  was  in  bed,'  an'  give  me  a  shove 
or  a  cuff.  Yes,  ma'am,"  looking  up  at  Mrs.  Cul- 


DAVID   HARUM.  173 

lorn,  "  the  wust  on't  was  that  I  was  kind  o'  scairt 
the  hull  time.  Once  in  a  while  Polly  'd  give  me 
a  mossel  o'  comfort,  but  Polly  wa'n't  but  little 
older  'n  me,  an'  bein'  the  youngest  girl,  was 
chored  most  to  death  herself." 

It  had  stopped  snowing,  and  though  the  wind 
still  came  in  gusty  blasts,  whirling  the  drift 
against  the  windows,  a  wintry  gleam  of  sunshine 
came  in  and  touched  the  widow's  wrinkled  face. 

"  It's  amazin'  how  much  trouble  an'  sorrer 
the'  is  in  the  world,  an'  how  soon  it  begins,"  she 
remarked,  moving  a  little  to  avoid  the  sunlight. 
"  I  hain't  never  ben  able  to  reconcile  how  many 
good  things  the'  be,  an'  how  little  most  on  us 
gits  o'  them.  I  hain't  ben  to  meetin'  fer  a  long 
spell  'cause  I  hain't  had  no  fit  clo'es,  but  I  re 
member  most  of  the  preachin'  I've  set  under 
either  dwelt  on  the  wrath  to  come,  or  else  on 
the  Lord's  doin'  all  things  well,  an'  providin'.  I 
hope  I  ain't  no  wickeder  'n  than  the  gen'ral  run, 
but  it's  putty  hard  to  hev  faith  in  the  Lord's  pro 
vidin'  when  you  hain't  got  nothin'  in  the  house 
but  corn  meal,  an'  none  too  much  o'  that." 

"  That's  so,  Mis'  Cullom,  that's  so,"  affirmed 
David.  "  I  don't  blame  ye  a  mite.  '  Doubts  as 
sail,  an'  oft  prevail,'  as  the  hymn-book  says,  an' 
I  reckon  it's  a  sight  easier  to  have  faith  on  meat 
an'  potatoes  'n  it  is  on  corn  meal  mush.  Wa'al, 
as  I  was  sayin' — I  hope  I  ain't  tirin'  ye  with  my 
goin's  on?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom,  "  I'm  engaged  to 
hear  ye,  but  nobody  'd  suppose  to  see  ye  now 
that  ye  was  such  a  f'lorn  little  critter  as  you 
make  out." 

"  It's  jest  as  I'm  tellin'  ye,  an'  more  also,  as 
the  Bible  says,"  returned  David,  and  then,  rather 


DAVID   HARUM. 


more  impressively,  as  if  he  were  leading  up  to 
liis  conclusion,  "  it  come  along  to  a  time  when 
I  was  'twixt  thirteen  an'  fourteen.  The'  was  a 
•cirkis  billed  to  show  down  here  in  Homeville, 
an'  ev'ry  barn  an'  shed  fer  miles  around  had  pic 
tures  stuck  onto  'em  of  el'phants,  an'  rhinoce 
roses,  an'  ev'ry  animul  that  went  into  the  ark  ;  an' 
girls  ridin'  bareback  an'  jumpin'  through  hoops, 
an'  fellers  ridin'  bareback  an'  turnin'  summersets, 
an'  doin'  turnovers  on  swings;  an'  clowns  gettin' 
hoss-whipped,  an'  ev'ry  kind  of  a  thing  that  could 
be  pictered  out;  an'  how  the'  was  to  be  a  grand 
percession  at  ten  o'clock,  'ith  golden  chariots, 
an'  scripteral  allegories,  an'  the  hull  bus'nis;  an' 
the  gran'  performance  at  two  o'clock;  admission 
twenty-five  cents,  children  under  twelve,  at  cet- 
ery,  an'  so  forth.  Wa'al,  I  hadn't  no  more  idee 
o'  goin'  to  that  cirkis  'n  I  had  o'  flyin'  to  the 
moon,  but  the  night  before  the  show  somethin' 
waked  me  'bout  twelve  o'clock.  I  don't  know 
how  't  was.  I'd  ben  helpin'  mend  fence  all  day, 
an'  gen'ally  I  never  knowed  nothin'  after  my 
head  struck  the  bed  till  mornin'.  But  that  night, 
anyhow,  somethin'  waked  me,  an'  I  went  an' 
looked  out  the  windo',  an'  there  was  the  hull 
thing  goin'  by  the  house.  The'  was  more  or 
less  moon,  an'  I  see  the  el'phant,  an'  the  big 
wagins  —  the  drivers  kind  o'  noddin'  over  the 
dashboards  —  an'  the  chariots  with  canvas  covers 
—  I  don't  know  how  many  of  'em  —  an'  the  cages 
of  the  tigers  an'  lions,  an'  all.  Wa'al,  I  got  up  the 
next  mornin'  at  sun-up  an'  done  my  chores;  an' 
after  breakfust  I  set  off  fer  the  ten-acre  lot  where 
I  was  mendin'  fence.  The  ten-acre  was  the  far 
thest  off  of  any,  Homeville  way,  an'  I  had  my 
dinner  in  a  tin  pail  so't  I  needn't  lose  no  time 


DAVID   HARUM.  175 

goin'  home  at  noon,  an',  as  luck  would  have  it, 
the'  wa'n't  nobody  with  me  that  mornin'.  Wa'al, 
I  got  down  to  the  lot  an'  set  to  work;  but  some 
how  I  couldn't  git  that  show  out  o'  my  head  no 
how.  As  I  said,  I  hadn't  no  more  notion  of  goin' 
to  that  cirkis  'n  I  had  of  kingdom  come.  I'd 
never  had  two  shillin'  of  my  own  in  my  hull  life. 
But  the  more  I  thought  on't  the  uneasier  I  got. 
Somethin'  seemed  pullin'  an'  haulin'  at  me,  an' 
fin'ly  I  gin  in.  I  allowed  I'd  see  that  percession 
anyway  if  it  took  a  leg,  an'  mebbe  I  c'd  git  back 
'ithout  nobody  missin'  me.  'T  any  rate,  I'd 
take  the  chances  of  a  lickin'  jest  once — fer  that's 
what  it  meant — an'  I  up  an'  put  fer  the  village 
lickity-cut.  I  done  them  four  mile  lively,  I  c'n 
tell  ye,  an'  the  stun-bruises  never  hurt  me  once. 
"  When  I  got  down  to  the  village  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  the  hull  population  of  Freeland  Coun 
ty  was  there.  I'd  never  seen  so  many  folks  to 
gether  in  my  life,  an'  fer  a  spell  it  seemed  to  me 
as  if  ev'rybody  was  a-lookin'  at  me  an'  sayin', 
'  That's  old  Harum's  boy  Dave,  playin'  hookey,' 
an'  I  sneaked  'round  dreadin'  somebody  'd  give 
me  away;  but  I  fin'ly  found  that  nobody  wa'n't 
payin'  any  attention  to  me — they  was  there  to  see 
the  show,  an'  one  red-headed  boy  more  or  less 
wa'n't  no  pertic'ler  account.  Wa'al,  putty  soon 
the  percession  hove  in  sight,  an'  the'  was  a  reg'lar 
stampede  among  the  boys,  an'  when  it  got  by, 
I  run  an'  ketched  up  with  it  agin,  an'  walked 
alongside  the  el'phant,  tin  pail  an'  all,  till  they 
fetched  up  inside  the  tent.  Then  I  went  off  to 
one  side — it  must  'a'  ben  about  'leven  or  half-past, 
an'  eat  my  dinner — I  had  a  devourin'  appetite — - 
an'  thought  I'd  jest  walk  round  a  spell,  an'  then 
light  out  fer  home.  But  the'  was  so  many  things 


I76 


DAVID   HARUM. 


to  see  an'  hear — all  the  side-show  pictures  of 
Fat  Women,  an'  Livin'  Skelitons;  an'  Wild  Wom 
en  of  Madygasker,  an'  Wild  Men  of  Borneo;  an' 
snakes  windin'  round  women's  necks;  hand-or- 
gins;  fellers  that  played  the  'cordion,  an'  mouth- 
pipes,  an'  drum  an'  cymbals  all  to  once,  an'  such 
like — that  I  fergot  all  about  the  time  an'  the  ten- 
acre  lot,  an'  the  stun  fence,  an'  fust  I  knowed  the 
folks  was  makin'  fer  the  ticket  wagin,  an'  the 
band  begun  to  play  inside  the  tent.  Be  I  taxin' 
your  patience  over  the  limit?  "  said  David,  break 
ing  off  in  his  story  and  addressing  Mrs.  Cullom 
more  directly. 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  she  replied;  "  I  was  jest 
thinkin'  of  a  circus  I  went  to  once,"  she  added 
with  an  audible  sigh. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  taking  a  last  farewell 
of  the  end  of  his  cigar,  which  he  threw  into  the 
grate,  "  mebbe  what's  comin'  '11  int'rist  ye  more 
'n  the  rest  on't  has.  I  was  standin'  gawpin' 
'round,  list'nin'  to  the  band  an'  watchin'  the  folks 
git  their  tickets,  when  all  of  a  suddin  I  felt  a 
twitch  at  my  hair — it  had  a  way  of  workin'  out  of 
the  holes  in  my  old  chip  straw  hat — an'  somebody 
says  to  me,  '  Wa'al,  sonny,  what  you  thinkin'  of? ' 
he  says.  I  looked  up,  an'  who  do  you  s'pose  it 
was?  It  was  Billy  P.  Cullom!  I  knowed  who 
he  was,  fer  I'd  seen  him  before,  but  of  course  he 
didn't  know  me.  Yes,  ma'am,  it  was  Billy  P., 
an'  wa'n't  he  rigged  out  to  kill ! " 

The  speaker  paused  and  looked  into  the  fire, 
smiling.  The  woman  started  forward  facing  him, 
and  clasping  her  hands,  cried,  "  My  husband ! 
What  'd  he  have  on?" 

"Wa'al,"  said  David  slowly  and  reminiscently, 
"  near  's  I  c'n  remember,  he  had  on  a  blue  broad- 


DAVID   HARUM. 


177 


cloth  claw-hammer  coat  with  flat  gilt  buttons,  an' 
a  double-breasted  plaid  velvet  vest,  an'  pearl-gray 
pants,  strapped  down  over  his  boots,  which  was 
of  shiny  leather,  an'  a  high  pointed  collar  an'  blue 
stock  with  a  pin  in  it  (I  remember  wonderin'  if 
it  c'd  be  real  gold),  an'  a  yeller-white  plug  beaver 
hat." 

At  the  description  of  each  article  of  attire  Mrs. 
Cullom  nodded  her  head,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
David's  face,  and  as  he  concluded  she  broke  out 
breathlessly,  "  Oh,  yes!  Oh,  yes!  David,  he 
wore  them  very  same  clo'es,  an'  he  took  me  to 
that  very  same  show  that  very  same  night ! " 
There  was  in  her  face  a  look  almost  of  awe,  as  if 
a  sight  of  her  long-buried  past  youth  had  been 
shown  to  her  from  a  coffin. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  it 
was  the  widow  who  broke  the  silence.  As  David 
had  conjectured,  she  was  interested  at  last,  and  sat 
leaning  forward  with  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap. 

"  Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "  ain't  ye  goin'  on? 
What  did  he  say  to  ye?" 

"  Cert'nly,  cert'nly,"  responded  David,  "  I'll 
tell  ye  near  's  I  c'n  remember,  an'  I  c'n  remember 
putty  near.  As  I  told  ye,  I  felt  a  twitch  at  my 
hair,  an'  he  said,  '  What  be  you  thinkin'  about, 
sonny?'  I  looked  up  at  him,  an'  looked  away 
quick.  '  I  dunno,'  I  says,  diggin'  my  big  toe  into 
the  dust;  an'  then,  I  dunno  how  I  got  the  spunk 
to,  for  I  was  shyer  'n  a  rat,  '  Guess  I  was  thinkin' 
'bout  mendin'  that  fence  up  in  the  ten-acre  lot  's 
much  's  anythin','  I  says. 

"  '  Ain't  you  goin'  to  the  cirkis?  '  he  says. 

" '  I  hain't  got  no  money  to  go  to  cirkises,'  I 
says,  rubbin'  the  dusty  toes  o'  one  foot  over  t' 
other,  '  nor  nothin'  else,'  I  says. 
13 


j«g  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  '  Wa'al,'  he  says,  '  why  don't  you  crawl  un 
der  the  canvas?' 

"That  kind  o'  riled  me,  shy  's  I  was.  ' 
don't  crawl  under  no  canvases,'  I  says.  '  If  ] 
can't  go  in  same  's  other  folks,  I'll  stay  out,'  I 
says,  lookin'  square  at  him  fer  the  fust  time.  He 
wa'n't  exac'ly  smilin',  but  the'  was  a  look  in  his 
eyes  that  was  the  next  thing  to  it." 

"  Lordy  me!"  sighed  Mrs.  Cullom,  as  if  to 
herself.  "  How  well  I  can  remember  that  look; 
jest  as  if  he  was  laughin'  at  ye,  an'  wa'n't  laughin' 
at  ye,  an'  his  arm  around  your  neck!  " 

David  nodded  in  reminiscent  sympathy,  and 
rubbed  his  bald  poll  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"  Wa'al,"  interjected  the  widow. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  resuming,  "  he  says  to 
me,  'Would  you  like  to  go  to  the  cirkis?'  an' 
with  that  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  did  want  to  go 
to  that  cirkis  more'n  anythin'  I  ever  wanted  to 
before — nor  since,  it  seems  to  me.  But  I  tell  ye 
the  truth,  I  was  so  far  fm  expectin'  to  go  't  I 
really  hadn't  knowed  I  wanted  to.  I  looked  at 
him,  an'  then  down  agin,  an'  began  tenderin'  up 
a  stun-bruise  on  one  heel  agin  the  other  instep, 
an'  all  I  says  was,  bein'  so  dum'd  shy,  '  I  dunno/ 
I  says.  But  I  guess  he  seen  in  my  face  what  my 
feelin's  was,  fer  he  kind  o'  laughed  an'  pulled  out 
half-a-dollar  an'  says :  '  D'  you  think  you  could 
git  a  couple  o'  tickits  in  that  crowd?  If  you  kin, 
I  think  I'll  go  myself,  but  I  don't  want  to  git  my 
boots  all  dust,'  he  says.  I  allowed  I  c'd  try;  an' 
I  guess  them  bare  feet  o'  mine  tore  up  the  dust 
some  gettin'  over  to  the  wagin.  Wa'al,  I  had 
another  scare  gettin'  the  tickits,  fer  fear  some  one 
that  knowed  me  'd  see  me  with  a  half-a-dollar, 
an'  think  I  must  'a'  stole  the  money.  But  I  got 


DAVID   HARUM. 

'em  an'  carried  'em  back  to  him,  an'  he  took  'em 
an'  put  'em  in  his  vest  pocket,  an'  handed  me  a 
ten-cent  piece,  an'  says,  '  Mebbe  you'll  want 
somethin'  in  the  way  of  refreshments  fer  yourself 
an'  mebbe  the  el'phant,'  he  says,  an'  walked  off 
toward  the  tent;  an' I  stood  stun  still, lookin' after 
him.  He  got  off  about  a  rod  or  so  an'  stopped 
an'  looked  back.  '  Ain't  you  comin'?  '  he  says. 
'  Be  I  goin'  with  you?  "  I  says. 

"  '  Why  not? '  he  says,  '  'nless  you'd  ruther  go 
alone,'  an'  he  put  his  finger  an'  thumb  into  his 
vest  pocket.  Wa'al,  ma'am,  I  looked  at  him  a 
minute,  with  his  shiny  hat  an'  boots,  an'  fine 
clo'es,  an'  gold  pin,  an'  thought  of  my  ragged  ole 
shirt,  an'  cotton  pants,  an'  ole  chip  hat  with  the 
brim  most  gone,  an'  my  tin  pail  an'  all.  '  I  ain't 
fit  to,'  I  says,  ready  to  cry — an' — wa'al,  he  jest 
laughed,  an'  says,  '  Nonsense,'  he  says,  '  come 
along.  A  man  needn't  be  ashamed  of  his  workin' 
clo'es,'  he  says,  an'  I'm  dum'd  if  he  didn't  take 
holt  of  my  hand,  an'  in  we  went  that  way  to 
gether." 

"How  like  him  that  was!"  said  the  widow 
softly. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  yes,  ma'am,  I  reckon  it  was," 
said  David,  nodding. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  went  on  after  a  little  pause,  "  I 
was  ready  to  sink  into  the  ground  with  shyniss 
at  fust,  but  that  wore  off  some  after  a  little,  an' 
we  two  seen  the  hull  show,  I  tell  ye.  We  walked 
'round  the  cages,  an'  we  fed  the  el'phant — that  is, 
he  bought  the  stuff  an'  I  fed  him.  I  'member — 
he,  he,  he! — 't  he  says,  'mind  you  git  the  right 
end,'  he  says,  an'  then  we  got  a  couple  o'  seats, 
an'  the  doin's  begun." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  wif1ow  was  looking  at  David  with  shin 
ing  eyes  and  devouring  his  words.  All  the  years 
of  trouble  and  sorrow  and  privation  were  wiped 
out,  and  she  was  back  in  the  days  of  her  girl 
hood.  Ah,  yes!  how  well  she  remembered  him 
as  he  looked  that  very  day — so  handsome,  so 
splendidly  dressed,  so  debonair;  and  how  proud 
she  had  been  to  sit  by  his  side  that  night,  ob 
served  and  envied  of  all  the  village  girls. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  go  over  the  hull  show,"  pro 
ceeded  David,  "  well  's  I  remember  it.  The' 
didn't  nothin'  git  away  from  me  that  afternoon, 
an'  once  I  come  near  to  stickin'  a  piece  o'  ginger 
bread  into  my  ear  'stid  o'  my  mouth.  I  had  my 
ten-cent  piece  that  Billy  P.  give  me,  but  he 
wouldn't  let  me  buy  nothin';  an'  when  the  gin 
gerbread  man  come  along  he  says,  '  Air  ye  hun 
gry,  Dave?  (I'd  told  him  my  name),  air  ye  hun 
gry?'  Wa'al,  I  was  a  growin'  boy,  an'  I  was 
hungry  putty  much  all  the  time.  He  bought 
two  big  squares  an'  gin  me  one,  an'  when  I'd 
swallered  it,  he  says,  '  Guess  you  better  tackle  this 
one  too,'  he  says,  '  I've  dined.'  I  didn't  exac'ly 
know  what  '  dined  '  meant,  but — he,  he,  he,  he ! — 
I  tackled  it,"  and  David  smacked  his  lips  in 
memory. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  went  on,  "  we  done  the  hull  pro- 
180 


DAVID   HARUM.  l8t 

& 

grammy — gingerbread,  lemonade — pink  lemon 
ade,  an'  he  took  some  o'  that — pop  corn,  peanuts, 

pep'mint  candy,  cin'mun  candy — scat  my  ! 

an'  he  pay  in'  fer  ev'rythin' — I  thought  he  was  jest 
made  o'  money!  An'  I  remember  how  we  talked 
about  all  the  doin's;  the  ridin',  an'  jumpin',  an' 
summersettin',  an'  all — fer  he'd  got  all  the  shyniss 
out  of  me  for  the  time — an'  once  I  looked  up  at 
him,  an'  he  looked  down  at  me  with  that  curious 
look  in  his  eyes  an'  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 
Wa'al,  now,  I  tell  ye,  I  had  a  queer,  crinkly  feel- 
in'  go  up  an'  down  my  back,  an'  I  like  to  up  an' 
cried." 

"  Dave,"  said  the  widow,  "  I  kin  see  you  two 
as  if  you  was  settin'  there  front  of  me.  He  was 
alwus  like  that.  Oh,  my!  Oh,  my!  David," 
she  added  solemnly,  while  two  tears  rolled  slowly 
down  her  wrinkled  face,  "  we  lived  together,  hus- 
ban'  an'  wife,  fer  seven  year,  an'  he  never  give 
me  a  cross  word." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it  a  mossel,"  said  David  sim 
ply,  leaning  over  and  poking  the  fire,  which  oper 
ation  kept  his  face  out  of  her  sight  and  was  pro 
longed  rather  unduly.  Finally  he  straightened 
up  and,  blowing  his  nose  as  it  were  a  trumpet, 
said: 

"  Wa'al,  the  cirkis  fin'ly  come  to  an  end,  an' 
the  crowd  hustled  to  git  out  's  if  they  was  afraid 
the  tent  'd  come  down  on  'em.  I  got  kind  o' 
mixed  up  in  'em,  an'  somebody  tried  to  git  my 
tin  pail,  or  I  thought  he  did,  an'  the  upshot  was 
that  I  lost  sight  o'  Billy  P.,  an'  couldn't  make  out 
to  ketch  a  glimpse  of  him  nowhere.  An'  then  I 
kind  o'  come  down  to  earth,  kerchug!  It  was 
five  o'clock,  an'  I  had  better  'n  four  mile  to  walk 
— mostly  up  hill — an'  if  I  knowed  anything  'bout 


DAVID   HARUM. 

the  old  man,  an'  I  thought  I  did,  I  had  the  all- 
firedist  lickin'  ahead  of  me  't  I'd  ever  got,  an'  that 
was  sayin'  a  good  deal.  But,  boy  's  I  was,  I  had 
grit  enough  to  allow  't  was  wuth  it,  an'  off  I 
put." 

"Did  he  lick  ye  much?"  inquired  Mrs.  Cul- 
lom  anxiously. 

"  Wa'al,"  replied  David,  "  he  done  his  best. 
He  was  layin'  fer  me  when  I  struck  the  front  gate 
—I  knowed  it  wa'n't  no  use  to  try  the  back  door, 
an'  he  took  me  by  the  ear — most  pulled  it  off — 
an'  marched  me  off  to  the  barn  shed  without  a 
word.  I  never  see  him  so  mad.  Seemed  like 
he  couldn't  speak  fer  a  while,  but  fm'ly  he  says, 
'  Where  you  ben  all  day? ' 

"  '  Down  t'  the  village,'  I  says. 

"  '  What  you  ben  up  to  down  there? '  he  says. 

"  '  Went  to  the  cirkis,'  I  says,  thinkin'  I  might 
's  well  make  a  clean  breast  on't. 

" '  Where  'd  you  git  the  money? '  he  says. 
*  Mr.  Cullom  took  me,'  I  says. 

"  '  You  lie,'  he  says.  '  You  stole  the  money 
somewheres,  an'  I'll  trounce  it  out  of  ye,  if  I 
kill  ye,'  he  says. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  twisting  his  shoulders  in 
recollection,  "  I  won't  harrer  up  your  feelin's.  'S 
I  told  you,  he  done  his  best.  I  was  willin'  to 
quit  long  'fore  he  was.  Fact  was,  he  overdone 
it  a  little,  an'  he  had  to  throw  water  in  my  face 
'fore  he  got  through;  an'  he  done  that  as  thor 
ough  as  the  other  thing.  I  was  somethin'  like 
a  chickin  jest  out  o'  the  cistern.  I  crawled  off 
to  bed  the  best  I  could,  but  I  didn't  lay  on  my 
back  fer  a  good  spell,  I  c'n  tell  ye." 

"  You  poor  little  critter,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cul 
lom  sympathetically.  "  You  poor  little  critter!  " 


DAVID    HARUM.  183 

"  T  was  more'n  wuth  it,  Mis'  Cullom,"  said 
David  emphatically.  "  I'd  had  the  most  enjoy- 
'ble  day,  I  might  say  the  only  enjoy'ble  day, 
't  I'd  ever  had  in  my  hull  life,  an'  I  hain't 
never  fergot  it.  I  got  over  the  lickin'  in 
course  of  time,  but  I've  ben  enjoyin'  that  cirkis 
fer  forty  year.  The'  wa'n't  but  one  thing  to  hen- 
der,  an'  that's  this,  that  I  hain't  never  ben  able 
to  remember — an'  to  this  day  I  lay  awake  nights 
tryin'  to — that  I  said  '  Thank  ye '  to  Billy  P.,  an' 
I  never  seen  him  after  that  day." 

"  How's  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"  Wa'al,"  was  the  reply,  "  that  day  was  the 
turnin'  point  with  me.  The  next  night  I  lit  out 
with  what  duds  I  c'd  git  together,  an'  as  much 
grub  's  I  could  pack  in  that  tin  pail;  an'  the  next 
time  I  see  the  old  house  on  Buxton  Hill  the' 
hadn't  ben  no  Harums  in  it  fer  years." 

Here  David  rose  from  his  chair,  yawned  and 
stretched  himself,  and  stood  with  his  back  to 
the  fire.  The  widow  looked  up  anxiously 
into  his  face.  "Is  that  all?"  she  asked  after  a 
while. 

"  Wa'al,  it  is  an'  it  ain't.  I've  got  through 
yarnin'  about  Dave  Harum  at  any  rate,  an'  meb- 
be  we'd  better  have  a  little  confab  on  your  mat 
ters,  seein'  't  I've  got  you  'way  up  here  such  a 
mornin'  's  this.  I  gen'ally  do  bus'nis  fust  an' 
talkin'  afterward,"  he  added,  "  but  I  kind  o'  got 
to  goin'  an'  kept  on  this  time." 

He  put  his  hand  into  the  breast  pocket  of  his 
coat  and  took  out  three  papers,  which  he  shuffled 
in  review  as  if  to  verify  their  identity,  and  then 
held  them  in  one  hand,  tapping  them  softly  upon 
the  palm  of  the  other,  as  if  at  a  loss  how  to  begin. 
The  widow  sat  with  her  eyes  fastened  upon  the 


1 84 


DAVID   HARUM. 


papers,  trembling  with  nervous  apprehension. 
Presently  he  broke  the  silence. 

"  About  this  here  morgidge  o'  your'n,"  he 
said,  "  I  sent  ye  word  that  I  wanted  to  close  the 
matter  up,  an'  seein'  't  you're  here  an'  come  fer 
that  purpose,  I  guess  we'd  better  make  a  job  on't. 
The'  ain't  no  time  like  the  present,  as  the  say- 
in'  is." 

"  I  s'pose  it'll  hev  to  be  as  you  say,"  said  the 
widow  in  a  shaking  voice. 

"  Mis'  Cullom,"  said  David  solemnly,  "  you 
know,  an'  I  know,  that  I've  got  the  repitation  of 
bein'  a  hard,  graspin',  schemin'  man.  Mebbe  I 
be.  Mebbe  I've  ben  hard  done  by  all  my  hull 
life,  an'  have  had  to  be;  an'  mebbe,  now  't  I've 
got  ahead  some,  it's  got  to  be  second  nature,  an' 
I  can't  seem  to  help  it.  '  Bus'nis  is  bus'nis '  ain't 
part  of  the  golden  rule,  I  allow,  but  the  way  it 
gen'ally  runs,  fur  's  I've  found  out,  is,  '  Do  unto 
the  other  feller  the  way  he'd  like  to  do  unto  you, 
an'  do  it  fust.'  But,  if  you  want  to  keep  this 
thing  a-runnin'  as  it's  goin'  on  now  fer  a  spell 
longer,  say  one  year,  or  two,  or  even  three,  you 
may,  only  I've  got  somethin'  to  say  to  ye  'fore 
ye  elect." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  the  poor  woman,  "  I  expect  it 
'd  only  be  pilin'  up  wrath  agin'  the  day  o'  wrath. 
I  can't  pay  the  int'rist  now  without  starvin',  an* 
I  hain't  got  no  one  to  bid  in  the  prop'ty  fer  me 
if  it  was  to  be  sold." 

"  Mis'  Cullom,"  said  David,  "  I  said  I'd  got 
somethin'  more  to  tell  ye,  an'  if,  when  I  git 
through,  you  don't  think  I've  treated  you  right, 
includin'  this  mornin's  confab,  I  hope  you'll  fer- 
give  me.  It's  this,  an'  I'm  the  only  person  livin' 
that  's  knowin'  to  it,  an'  in  fact  I  may  say  that 


DAVID   HARUM.  185 

I'm  the  only  person  that  ever  was  really  knowin' 
to  it.  It  was  before  you  was  married,  an'  I'm 
sure  he  never  told  ye,  fer  I  don't  doubt  he  fergot 
all  about  it,  but  your  husband,  Billy  P.  Cullom, 
that  was,  made  a  small  investment  once  on  a  time, 
yes,  ma'am,  he  did,  an'  in  his  kind  of  careless 
way  it  jes'  slipped  his  mind.  The  amount  of 
cap'tal  he  put  in  wa'n't  large,  but  the  rate  of 
int'rist  was  uncommon  high.  Now,  he  never 
drawed  no  dividends  on't,  an'  they've  ben  'cumu- 
latin'  fer  forty  year,  more  or  less,  at  compound 
int'rist." 

The  widow  started  forward,  as  if  to  rise  from 
her  seat.  David  put  his  hand  out  gently  and 
said,  "  Jest  a  minute,  Mis'  Cullom,  jest  a  minute, 
till  I  git  through.  Part  o'  that  cap'tal,"  he  re 
sumed,  "  consistin'  of  a  quarter  an'  some  odd 
cents,  was  invested  in  the  cirkis  bus'nis,  an'  the 
rest  on't — the  cap'tal,  an'  all  the  cash  cap'tal  that 
I  started  in  bus'nis  with — was  the  ten  cents  your 
husband  give  me  that  day,  an'  here,"  said  David, 
striking  the  papers  in  his  left  hand  with  the  back 
of  his  right,  "  here  is  the  dividends!  This  here 
second  morgidge,  not  bein'  on  record,  may  jest 
as  well  go  onto  the  fire — it's  gettin'  low — an' 
here's  a  satisfaction  piece  which  I'm  goin'  to  exe 
cute  now,  that'll  clear  the  thousan'  dollar  one. 
Come  in  here,  John,"  he  called  out. 

The  widow  stared  at  David  for  a  moment 
speechless,  but  as  the  significance  of  his  words 
dawned  upon  her,  the  blood  flushed  darkly  in 
her  face.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and,  throwing 
up  her  arms,  cried  out:  "  My  Lord!  My  Lord! 
Dave!  Dave  Harum!  Is  it  true? — tell  me  it's 
true!  You  ain't  foolin'  me,  air  ye,  Dave?  You 
wouldn't  fool  a  poor  old  woman  that  never  done 


DAVID   HARUM. 

ye  no  harm,  nor  said  a  mean  word  agin  ye,  would 
ye?  Is  it  true?  an'  is  my  place  clear?  an'  I  don't 
owe  nobody  any  thin' — I  mean,  no  money?  Tell  it 
agin  Oh,  tell  it  agin!  Oh,  Dave!  it's  too  good 
to  be  true!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh,  my!  an'  here  I  be 
cryin'  like  a  great  baby,  an',  an'  "—fumbling  in 
her  pocket — "  I  do  believe  I  hain't  got  no  hank'- 
chif— Oh,  thank  ye,"  to  John;  "  I'll  do  it  up  an' 
send  it  back  to-morrer.  Oh,  what  made  ye  do  it, 
Dave?" 

"  Set  right  down  an'  take  it  easy,  Mis'  Cul- 
lom,"  said  David  soothingly,  putting  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders  and  gently  pushing  her  back  into 
her  chair.  "  Set  right  down  an'  take  it  easy  — 
Yes "  to  John,  "  I  acknowledge  that  I  signed 
that." 

He  turned  to  the  widow,  who  sat  wiping  her 
eyes  with  John's  handkerchief. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "  it's  as  true  as  any- 
thin'  kin  be.  I  wouldn't  no  more  fool  ye,  ye 
know  I  wouldn't,  don't  ye?  than  I'd— jerk  a 
hoss,"  he  asseverated.  ;<  Your  place  is  clear 
now,  an'  by  this  time  to-morro'  the'  won't 
be  the  scratch  of  a  pen  agin  it.  I'll  send  the 
satisfaction  over  fer  record  fust  thing  in  the 
mornin'." 

"  But,  Dave,"  protested  the  widow,  "  I  s'pose 
ye  know  what  you're  doin' ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  interposed,  "  I  cal'late  I  do,  putty 
near.  You  ast  me  why  I  done  it,  an'  I'll  tell  ye 
if  ye  want  to  know.  I'm  payin'  off  an  old  score, 
an'  gettin'  off  cheap,  too.  That's  what  I'm  doin'! 
I  thought  I'd  hinted  up  to  it  putty  plain,  seein' 
't  I've  talked  till  my  jaws  ache;  but  I'll  sum  it 
up  to  ye  if  you  like." 

He    stood    with    his    feet   aggressively    wide 


DAVID   HARUM. 


I87 


apart,  one  hand  in  his  trousers  pocket,  and  hold 
ing  in  the  other  the  "  morgidge,"  which  he  waved 
from  time  to  time  in  emphasis. 

"  You  c'n  estimate,  I  reckon,"  he  began, 
"  what  kind  of  a  bringin'-up  I  had,  an'  what  a 
poor,  mis'able,  God-fersaken,  scairt-to-death  little 
forlorn  critter  I  was;  put  upon,  an'  snubbed,  an' 
jawed  at  till  I'd  come  to  believe  myself — what 
was  rubbed  into  me  the  hull  time — that  I  was  the 
most  all-'round  no-account  animul  that  was  ever 
made  out  o'  dust,  an'  wa'n't  ever  likely  to  be  no 
dirFrent.  Lookin'  back,  it  seems  to  me  that — 
exceptin'  of  Polly — I  never  had  a  kind  word  said 
to  me,  nor  a  day's  fun.  Your  husband,  Billy  P. 
Cullom,  was  the  fust  man  that  ever  treated  me 
human  up  to  that  time.  He  give  me  the  only 
enjoy'ble  time  't  I'd  ever  had,  an'  I  don't  know  't 
anythin'  's  ever  equaled  it  since.  He  spent 
money  on  me,  an'  he  give  me  money  to  spend — 
that  had  never  had  a  cent  to  call  my  own — an', 
Mis'  Cullcm,  he  took  me  by  the  hand,  an'  he 
talked  to  me,  an'  he  gin  me  the  fust  notion  't  I'd 
ever  had  that  mebbe  I  wa'n't  only  the  scum  o' 
the  earth,  as  I'd  ben  teached  to  believe.  I  told 
ye  that  that  day  was  the  turnin'  point  of  my  life. 
Wa'al,  it  wa'n't  the  lickin'  I  got,  though  that  had 
somethin'  to  do  with  it,  but  I'd  never  have  had 
the  spunk  to  run  away  's  I  did  if  it  hadn't  ben 
for  the  heartenin'  Billy  P.  gin  me,  an'  never 
knowed  it,  an'  never  knowed  it,"  he  repeated 
mournfully.  "  I  alwus  allowed  to  pay  some  o' 
that  debt  back  to  him,  but  seein'  's  I  can't  do  that, 
Mis'  Cullom,  I'm  glad  an'  thankful  to  pav  it  to 
his  widdo'." 

"  Mebbe  he  knows,  Dave,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom 
softlv. 


jgg  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  Mebbe  he  does,"  assented  David  in  a  low 
voice. 

Neither  spoke  for  a  time,  and  then  the  widow 
said:  "David,  I  can't  thank  ye  's  I  ought  ter — 
I  don't  know  how — but  I'll  pray  for  ye  night  an' 
mornin'  's  long  's  I  got  breath.  An',  Dave,"  she 
added  humbly,  "  I  want  to  take  back  what  I  said 
about  the  Lord's  providin'." 

She  sat  a  moment,  lost  in  her  thoughts,  and 
then  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  it  don't  seem  's  if  I  c'd 
wait  to  write  to  Charley !  " 

"  I've  wrote  to  Charley,"  said  David,  "  an' 
told  him  to  sell  out  there  an'  come  home,  an'  to 
draw  on  me  fer  any  balance  he  needed  to  move 
him.  I've  got  somethin'  in  my  eye  that'll  be 
easier  an'  better  payin'  than  fightin'  grasshoppers 
an'  drought  in  Kansas." 

"  Dave  Harum !  "  cried  the  widow,  rising  to 
her  feet,  "  you  ought  to  'a'  ben  a  king! " 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David  with  a  grin,  "  I  don't 
know  much  about  the  kingin'  bus'nis,  but  I  guess 
a  cloth  cap  'n'  a  hoss  whip  's  more  'n  my  line 
than  a  crown  an'  scepter.  An'  now,"  he  added, 
"  's  we've  got  through  'th  our  bus'nis,  s'pose  you 
step  over  to  the  house  an'  see  Polly.  She's  ex- 
pectin'  on  ye  to  dinner.  Oh,  yes,"  replying  to 
the  look  of  deprecation  in  her  face  as  she  viewed 
her  shabby  frock,  "  you  an'  Polly  c'n  prink  up 
some  if  you  want  to,  but  we  can't  take  '  No ' 
fer  an  answer  Chris'mus  day,  clo'es  or  no 
clo'es." 

"  I'd  really  like  ter,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"All  right  then,"  said  David  cheerfully. 
"  The  path  is  swep'  by  this  time,  I  guess,  an'  I'll 
see  ye  later.  Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  the's  somethin'  I  fergot.  I  want  to  make  you 


DAVID    HARUM.  189 

a  proposition,  ru.'ier  an  onusual  one,  but  seem' 
ev'rythin'  is  as  't  is,  perhaps  you'll  consider  it." 

"  Dave,"  declared  the  widow,  "  if  I  could,  an* 
you  ast  for  it,  I'd  give  ye  anythin'  on  the  face  o' 
this  mortal  globe !  " 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  nodding  and  smiling,  "  I 
thought  that  mebbe,  kng  's  you  got  the  int'rist 
of  that  investment  we  ben  talkin'  about,  you'd 
let  me  keep  what's  left  of  the  princ'pal.  Would 
ye  like  to  see  it?  " 

Mrs.  Cullom  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled 
expression  without  replying. 

David  took  from  his  pocket  a  large  wallet,  se 
cured  by  a  strap,  and,  opening  it,  extracted  some 
thing  enveloped  in  much  faded  brown  paper. 
Unfolding  this,  he  displayed  upon  his  broad  fat 
palm  an  old  silver  dime  black  with  age. 

"  There's  the  cap'tal,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

JOHN  walked  to  the  front  door  with  Mrs. 
Cullom,  but  she  declined  with  such  evident  sin 
cerity  his  offer  to  carry  her  bundle  to  the  house 
that  he  let  her  out  of  the  office  and  returned  to 
the  back  room.  David  was  sitting  before  the 
fire,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  his  hands 
thrust  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets.  He  looked 
up  as  John  entered  and  said,  "  Draw  up  a  chair." 

John  brought  a  chair  and  stood  by  the  side  of 
it  while  he  said,  "  I  want  to  thank  you  for  the 
Christmas  remembrance,  which  pleased  and 
touched  me  very  deeply;  and,"  he  added  diffi 
dently,  "  I  want  to  say  how  mortified  I  am — in 
fact,  I  want  to  apologize  for — 

"  Regrettin'?  "  interrupted  David  with  a  mo 
tion  of  his  hand  toward  the  chair  and  a  smile  of 
great  amusement.  "  Sho,  sho!  Se'  down,  se* 
down.  I'm  glad  you  found  somethin'  in  your 
stockin'  if  it  pleased  ye,  an'  as  fur  's  that  regret  o' 
your'n  was  concerned — wa'al — wa'al,  I  liked  ye 
all  the  better  for  't,  I  did  fer  a  fact.  He,  he,  he! 
Appearances  was  ruther  agin  me,  wasn't  they, 
the  way  I  told  it." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  John,  seating  himself, 
"  I  ought  not  to  have — that  is  to  say,  I  ought  to 
have  known 

"  How  could  ye,"  David  broke  in,  "  when  I 
190 


DAVID    HARUM.  IC;l 

as  good  as  told  ye  I  was  cal'latin'  to  rob  the  old 

lady?  He,  he,  he,  he!  Scat  my  !  Your 

face  was  a  picture  when  I  told  ye  to  write  that 
note,  though  I  reckon  you  didn't  know  I  no 
ticed  it." 

John  laughed  and  said,  "  You  have  been  very 
generous  all  through,  Mr.  Harum." 

"  Nothin'  to  brag  on,"  he  replied,  "  nothin'  to 
brag  on.  Fur  's  Mis'  Cullom's  matter  was  con 
cerned,  't  was  as  I  said,  jes'  payin'  off  an  old 
score;  an'  as  fur  's  your  stockin',  it's  really  putty 
much  the  same.  I'll  allow  you've  earned  it,  if 
it'll  set  any  easier  on  your  stomech." 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  have  been  overworked," 
said  John  with  a  slight  laugh. 

"Mebbe  not,"  rejoined  David,  "  but  you  hain't 
ben  overpaid  neither,  an'  I  want  ye  to  be  satis 
fied.  Fact  is,"  he  continued,  "  my  gettin'  you 
up  here  was  putty  consid'able  of  an  experiment, 
but  I  ben  watchin'  ye  putty  close,  an'  I'm  more'n 
satisfied.  Mebbe  Timson  c'd  beat  ye  at  figurin' 
an'  countin'  money  when  you  fust  come,  an* 
knowed  more  about  the  pertic'ler  points  of  the 
office,  but  outside  of  that  he  was  the  biggist 
dumb-head  I  ever  see,  an'  you  know  how  he  lef 
things.  He  hadn't  no  tack,  fer  one  thing.  Out 
side  of  summin'  up  figures  an'  countin'  money 
he  had  a  faculty  fer  gettin'  things  t'other-end 
to  that  beat  all.  I'd  tell  him  ^  a  thing,  an' 
explain  it  to  him  two  three  times  over,  an'  he'd 

say  'Yes,  yes,'  an',  scat  my !  when  it  came 

to  carryin'  on't  out,  he  hadn't  sensed  it  a  mite — 
ies*  got  it  which-end-t'other.  An'  talk!  Wa'al, 
I  think  it  must  'a'  ben  a  kind  of  disease  with  him. 
He  really  didn't  mean  no  harm,  mebbe,  but  he 
couldn't  no  more  help  lettin'  out  anythin'  he 


DAVID   HARUM. 


knowed,  or  thought  he  knowed,  than  a  settin'  hen 
c'n  help  settin'.  He  kep'  me  on  tenter-hooks  the 
hull  endurin'  time." 

"  I  should  say  he  was  honest  enough,  was  he 
not?"  said  John. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  David  with  a  touch  of 
scorn,  "  he  was  honest  enough  fur  's  money  mat 
ters  was  concerned;  but  he  hadn't  no  tack,  nor  no 
sense,  an*  many  a  time  he  done  more  mischief 
with  his  gibble-gabble  than  if  he'd  took  fifty  dol 
lars  out  an'  out.  Fact  is,"  said  David,  "  the  kind 
of  honesty  that  won't  actually  steal  's  a  kind  of 
fool  honesty  that's  common  enough;  but  the 
kind  that  keeps  a  feller's  mouth  shut  when  he 
hadn't  ought  to  talk  's  about  the  scurcest  thing 
goin'.  I'll  jes'  tell  ye,  fer  example,  the  last  mess 
he  made.  You  know  Purse,  that  keeps  the  gen'- 
ral  store?  Wa'al,  he  come  to  me  some  months 
ago,  on  the  quiet,  an'  said  that  he  wanted  to 
borro'  five  hunderd.  He  didn't  want  to  git  no 
indorser,  but  he'd  show  me  his  books  an'  give 
me  a  statement  an'  a  chattel  morgidge  fer  six 
months.  He  didn't  want  nobody  to  know  't  he 
was  anyway  pushed  fer  money  because  he  wanted 
to  git  some  extensions,  an'  so  on.  I  made  up  my 
mind  it  was  all  right,  an'  I  done  it.  Wa'al,  about 
a  month  or  so  after  he  come  to  me  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  as  ye  might  say,  an'  says,  '  I  got  some- 
thin'  I  want  to  show  ye,'  an'  handed  out  a  letter 
from  the  house  in  New  York  he  had  some  of  his 
biggist  dealin's  with,  tellin'  him  that  they  re 
gretted  " — here  David  gave  John  a  nudge — "  that 
they  couldn't  give  him  the  extensions  he  ast 
for,  an'  that  his  paper  must  be  paid  as  it  fell 
due — some  twelve  hunderd  dollars.  '  Some 
body  's  leaked,'  he  says,  '  an'  they've  heard  of 


DAVID   HARUM.  193 

that  morgidge,  an'  I'm  in  a  putty  scrape/  he 
says. 

"  '  H'm'm/  I  says,  '  what  makes  ye  think  so? ' 

"  '  Can't  be  nothin'  else,'  he  says;  '  I've  dealt 
with  them  people  fer  years  an'  never  ast  fer  noth 
in'  but  what  I  got  it,  an'  now  to  have  'em  round 
up  on  me  like  this,  it  can't  be  nothin'  but  what 
they've  got  wind  o'  that  chattel  morgidge,'  he 
says. 

"  '  H'm'm/  I  says.  '  Any  o'  their  people  ben 
up  here  lately?'  I  says. 

"  '  That's  jest  it,'  he  says.  '  One  o'  their  trav- 
ellin'  men  was  up  here  last  week,  an'  he  come  in 
in  the  afternoon  as  chipper  as  you  please,  wantin' 
to  sell  me  a  bill  o'  goods,  an'  I  put  him  off,  sayin' 
that  I  had  a  putty  big  stock,  an'  so  on,  an'  he 
said  he'd  see  me  agin  in  the  mornin' — you  know 
that  sort  of  talk,'  he  says. 

"  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  did  he  come  in? ' 

"  '  No/  says  Purse,  '  he  didn't.  I  never  set 
eyes  on  him  agin,  an'  more'n  that/  he  says,  '  he 
took  the  first  train  in  the  mornin',  an'  now/  he 
says,  '  I  expect  I'll  have  ev'ry  last  man  I  owe 
anythin'  to  buzzin'  'round  my  ears.' 

"  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  I  guess  I  see  about  how 
the  land  lays,  an'  I  reckon  you  ain't  fur  out  about 
the  morgidge  bein'  at  the  bottom  on't,  an'  the* 
ain't  no  way  it  c'd  'a'  leaked  out  'ceptin'  through 
that  dum'd  chuckle-head  of  a  Timson.  But  this 
is  the  way  it  looks  to  me — you  hain't  heard  noth 
in'  in  the  village,  have  ye? '  I  says. 

"  '  No/  he  says.     '  Not  yit,'  he  says. 

"'  Wa'al,  ye  "won't,  I  don't  believe/  I  says, 
1  an'  as  fur  as  that  drummer  is  concerned,  you  c'n 
bet/  I  says,  '  that  he  didn't  nor  won't  let  on  to 
nobody  but  his  own  folks — not  till  his  bus'nis  is 


!94  DAVID    HARUM. 

squared  up,  an'  more  'n  that/  I  says,  '  seein'  that 
your  trouble  's  ben  made  ye  by  one  o'  my  help, 
I  don't  see  but  what  I'll  have  to  see  ye  through/ 
I  says.  '  You  jes'  give  me  the  address  of  the 
New  York  parties,  an'  tell  me  what  you  want 
done,  an'  I  reckon  I  c'n  fix  the  thing  so  't  they 
won't  bother  ye.  I  don't  believe/  I  says,  'that 
anybody  else  knows  anythin'  yet,  an'  I'll  shut  up 
Timson's  yawp  so  's  it'll  stay  shut.' " 

"How  did  the  matter  come  out?"  asked 
John,  "  and  what  did  Purse  say?" 

"  Oh,"  replied  David,  "  Purse  went  off  head 
up  an'  tail  up.  He  said  he  was  everlastin'ly 
obliged  to  me,  an' — he,  he,  he! — he  said  't  was 
more  'n  he  expected.  You  see  I  charged  him 
what  I  thought  was  right  on  the  'rig'nal  deal,  an' 
he  squimmidged  some,  an'  I  reckon  he  allowed 
to  be  putty  well  bled  if  I  took  holt  agin;  but  I 
done  as  I  agreed  on  the  extension  bus'nis,  an* 
I'm  on  his  paper  for  twelve  hunderd  fer  nothin', 
jest  because  that  nikum-noddy  of  a  Timson  let 
that  drummer  bamboozle  him  into  talkin'.  I 
found  out  the  hull  thing,  an'  the  very  day  I 
wrote  to  the  New  York  fellers  fer  Purse,  I  wrote 
to  Gen'ral  Wolsey  to  find  me  somebody  to  take 
Timson's  place.  I  allowed  I'd  ruther  have  some 
body  that  didn't  know  nobody,  than  such  a  clack- 
in'  ole  he-hen  as  Chet." 

"  I  should  have  said  that  it  was  rather  a  haz 
ardous  thing  to  do,"  said  John,  "  to  put  a  total 
stranger  like  me  into  what  is  rather  a  confidential 
position,  as  well  as  a  responsible  one." 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "in  the  fust  place  I 
knew  that  the  Gen'ral  wouldn't  recommend  no 
dead-beat  nor  no  skin,  an'  I  allowed  that  if  the 
raw  material  was  O.  K.,  I  could  break  it  in;  an* 


DAVID   HARUM.  195; 

if  it  wa'n't  I  should  find  it  out  putty  quick.  Like 
a  young  boss,"  he  remarked,  "  if  he's  sound  an' 
kind,  an'  got  gumption,  I'd  sooner  break  him  in 
myself  'n  not — fur's  my  use  goes — an'  if  I  can't, 
nobody  can,  an'  I  get  rid  on  him.  You  under 
stand?" 

"  Yes,"  said  John  with  a  smile. 

"  Wa'al,"  continued  David,  "  I  liked  your  let 
ter,  an'  when  you  come  I  liked  your  looks.  Of 
course  I  couldn't  tell  jest  how  you'd  take  holt, 
nor  if  you  an'  me  'd  hitch.  An'  then  agin,  I 
didn't  know  whether  you  could  stan'  it  here  after 
livin'  in  a  city  all  your  life.  I  watched  ye  putty 
close — closter  'n  you  knowed  of,  I  guess.  I  seen 
right  off  that  you  was  goin'  to  fill  your  collar, 
fur's  the  work  was  concerned,  an'  though  you 
didn't  know  nobody  much,  an'  couldn't  have  no 
amusement  to  speak  on,  you  didn't  mope  nor 
sulk,  an'  what's  more — though  I  know  I  advised 
ye  to  stay  there  fer  a  spell  longer  when  you  spoke 
about  boardin'  somewhere  else — I  know  what  the 
Eagle  tavern  is  in  winter;  summer,  too,  fer  that 
matter,  though  it's  a  little  better  then,  an'  I  al 
lowed  that  air  test  'd  be  final.  He,  he,  he! 
Putty  rough,  ain't  it?  " 

"It  is,  rather,"  said  John,  laughing.  "I'm 
afraid  my  endurance  is  pretty  well  at  an  end. 
Elright's  wife  is  ill,  and  the  fact  is,  that  since  day 
before  yesterday  I  have  been  living  on  what  I 
could  buy  at  the  grocery — crackers,  cheese,  salt 
fish,  canned  goods,  et  cetera" 

"Scat  my  !"  cried  David.  "Wa'al! 

Wa'al!  That's  too  dum'd  bad!  Why  on  earth 
— why,  you  must  be  hungry!  Wa'al,  you  won't 
have  to  eat  no  salt  herrin'  to-day,  because  Polly 
'n  I  are  expectin'  ye  to  dinner." 


DAVID   HARUM. 


196 

Two  or  three  times  during  the  conversation 
David  had  gone  to  the  window  overlooking  his 
lawn  and  looked  out  with  a  general  air  of  ob 
serving  the  weather,  and  at  this  point  he  did  so 
again,  coming  back  to  his  seat  with  a  look  of 
satisfaction,  for  which  there  was,  to  John,  no  ob 
vious  reason.  He  sat  for  a  moment  without 
speaking,  and  then,  looking  at  his  watch,  said: 
"Wa'al,  dinner  's  at  one  o'clock,  an'  Polly's  a 
great  one  fer  bein'  on  time.  Guess  I'll  go  out 
an'  have  another  look  at  that  pesky  colt.  You 
better  go  over  to  the  house  'bout  quarter  to  one, 
an'  you  c'n  make  your  t'ilet  over  there.  I'm 
'fraid  if  you  go  over  to  the  Eagle  it'll  spoil 
your  appetite.  She'd  think  it  might,  anyway." 

So  David  departed  to  see  the  colt,  and  John 
got  out  some  of  the  books  and  busied  himself 
with  them  until  the  time  to  present  himself  at 
David's  house. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"  WHY,  Mis'  Cullom,  I'm  real  glad  to  see  ye. 
Come  right  in,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  as  she  drew 
the  widow  into  the  "  wing  settin'  room,"  and  pro 
ceeded  to  relieve  her  of  her  wraps  and  her  bundle. 
"  Set  right  here  by  the  fire  while  I  take  these 
things  of  your'n  into  the  kitchen  to  dry  'em  out. 
I'll  be  right  back";  and  she  bustled  out  of  the 
room.  When  she  came  back  Mrs.  Cullom  was 
sitting  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  there  was 
in  her  eyes  an  expression  of  smiling  peace  that 
was  good  to  see. 

Mrs.  Bixbee  drew  up  a  chair,  and  seating  her 
self,  said:  "  Wa'al,  I  don't  know  when  I've  seen 
ye  to  git  a  chance  to  speak  to  ye,  an'  I  was  real 
pleased  when  David  said  you  was  goin'  to  be 
here  to  dinner.  An'  my!  how  well  you're  look- 
in' — more  like  Cynthy  Sweetland  than  I've  seen 
ye  fer  I  don't  know  when;  an'  yet,"  she  added, 
looking  curiously  at  her  guest,  "  you  'pear  some 
how  as  if  you'd  ben  cryin'." 

"  You're  real  kind,  I'm  sure,"  responded  Mrs. 
Cullom,  replying  to  the  other's  welcome  and  re 
marks  seriatim;  "  I  guess,  though,  I  don't  look 
much  like  Cynthy  Sweetland,  if  I  do  feel  twenty 
years  younger  'n  I  did  a  while  ago;  an'  I  have 
ben  cryin',  I  allow,  but  not  fer  sorro',  Polly 
Harum,"  she  exclaimed,  giving  the  other  her 

197 


198 


DAVTD    T I  ARUM. 


maiden  name.    "  Your  brother  Dave  comes  putty 
nigh  to  bein'  an  angel !  " 

"  Wa'al,"  replied  Mrs.  Bixbee  with  a  twinkle, 
"  I  reckon  Dave  might  hev  to  be  fixed  up  some 
afore  he  come  out  in  that  pertic'ler  shape,  but," 
she  added  impressively,  "  es  fur  as  bein'  a  man 
goes,  he's  'bout  's  good  's  they  make  'em.  I 
know  folks  thinks  he's  a  hard  bargainer,  an' 
close-fisted,  an'  some  on  'em  that  ain't  fit  to  lick 
up  his  tracks  says  more'n  that.  He's  got  his  own 
ways,  I'll  allow,  but  down  at  bottom,  an'  all 
through,  I  know  the'  ain't  no  better  man  livin'. 
No,  ma'am,  the'  ain't,  an'  what  he's  ben  to  me, 
Cynthy  Cullom,  nobody  knows  but  me — an' — an' 
- — mebbe  the  Lord — though  I  hev  seen  the  time," 
she  said  tentatively,  "  when  it  seemed  to  me  't  I 
knowed  more  about  my  affairs  'n  He  did,"  and 
she  looked  doubtfully  at  her  companion,  who  had 
been  following  her  with  affirmative  and  sympa 
thetic  nods,  and  now  drew  her  chair  a  little  closer, 
and  said  softly:  "  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  I  ben  putty 
doubtful  an'  rebellious  myself  a  good  many  times, 
but  seems  now  as  if  He  had  had  me  in  His  mercy 
all  the  time."  Here  Aunt  Polly's  sense  of  humor 
asserted  itself.  "  What's  Dave  ben  up  to  now?  " 
she  asked. 

And  then  the  widow  told  her  story,  with  tears 
and  smiles,  and  the  keen  enjoyment  which  we  all 
have  in  talking  about  ourselves  to  a  sympathetic 
listener  like  Aunt  Polly,  whose  interjections 
pointed  and  illuminated  the  narrative.  When  it 
was  finished  she  leaned  forward  and  kissed  Mrs. 
Cullom  on  the  cheek. 

"  I  can't  tell  ye  how  glad  I  be  for  ye,"  she 
said;  "but  if  I'd  known  that  David  held  that 
morgidge,  I  could  hev  told  ye  ye  needn't  hev 


DAVID   HARUM. 


199, 


s  orried  yourself  a  mite.  He  wouldn't  never 
have  taken  your  prop'ty,  more'n  he'd  rob  a  hen 
roost.  But  he  done  the  thing  his  own  way — 
kind  o'  fetched  it  round  fer  a  Merry  Chris'mus, 
didn't  he?  Curious,"  she  said  reflectively,  after 
a  momentary  pause,  "  how  he  lays  up  things 
about  his  childhood,"  and  then,  with  a  searching 
look  at  the  Widow  Cullom,  "  you  didn't  let  on, 
an'  I  didn't  ask  ye,  but  of  course  you've  lieard 
the  things  that  some  folks  says  of  him,  an'  natch- 
ally  they  got  some  holt  on  your  mind.  There's 
that  story  about  'Lish,  over  to  Whitcom — you 
heard  somethin'  about  that,  didn't  ye?" 

"  Yes,"  admitted  the  widow,  "  I  heard  some- 
thin'  of  it, 'I  s'pose." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "  you  never  heard 
the  hull  story,  ner  anybody  else  really,  but  I'm 
goin'  to  tell  it  to  ye " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom  assentingly. 

Mrs.  Bixbee  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair  with 
her  hands  on  her  knees  and  an  air  of  one  who 
would  see  justice  done. 

"  'Lish  Harum,"  she  began,  "  wa'n't  only  half- 
brother  to  Dave.  He?  was  hull-brother  to  me, 
though,  but  notwithstandin'  that,  I  will  say  that 
a  meaner  boy,  a  meaner  growin'  man,  an'  a 
meaner  man  never  walked  the  earth.  He  wa'n't 
satisfied  to  git  the  best  piece  an'  the  biggist  piece 
—he  hated  to  hev  any  one  else  git  anythin'  at  all. 
I  don't  believe  he  ever  laughed  in  his  life,  except 
over  some  kind  o'  suff'rin' — man  or  beast — an* 
what  'd  tickle  him  the  most  was  to  be  the  means 
on't.  He  took  pertic'ler  delight  in  abusin'  an' 
tormentin'  Dave,  an'  the  poor  little  critter  was 
jest  as  'fraid  as  death  of  him,  an'  good  reason. 
Father  was  awful  hard,  but  he  didn't  go  out  o! 


200 


DAVID   HARUM. 


his  way;  but  'Lish  never  let  no  chance  slip. 
Wa'al,  I  ain't  goin'  to  give  you  the  hull  fam'ly 
hist'ry,  an'  I've  got  to  go  into  the  kitchen  fer  a 
while  'fore  dinner,  but  what  I  started  out  fer  's 
this:  'Lish  fin'ly  settled  over  to  Whitcom." 

"  Did  he  ever  git  married?"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Cullom. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "  he  got 
married  when  he  was  past  forty.  It's  curious," 
she  remarked,  in  passing,  "  but  it  don't  seem  as 
if  the'  was  ever  yit  a  man  so  mean  but  he  c'd 
find  some  woman  was  fool  enough  to  marry  him, 
an'  she  was  a  putty  decent  sort  of  a  woman  too, 
f'm  all  accounts,  an'  good  lookin'.  Wa'al,  she 
stood  him  six  or  seven  year,  an'  then  she  run 
off." 

"With  another  man?"  queried  the  widow  in 
an  awed  voice.  Aunt  Polly  nodded  assent  with 
compressed  lips. 

"  Yes'm,"  she  went  on,  "  she  left  him  an' 
went  out  West  somewhere,  an'  that  was  the  last 
of  her;  an'  when  her  two  boys  got  old  enough 
to  look  after  themselves  a  little,  they  quit  him  too, 
an'  they  wa'n't  no  way  growed  up  neither.  Wa'al, 
the  long  an'  the  short  on't  was  that  'Lish  got  goin' 
down  hill  ev'ry  way,  health  an'  all,  till  he  hadn't 
nothin'  left  but  his  disposition,  an'  fairly  got  onter 
the  town.  The'  wa'n't  nothin'  for  it  but  to  send 
him  to  the  county  house,  onless  somebody  'd 
s'port  him.  Wa'al,  the  committee  knew  Dave 
was  his  brother,  an'  one  on  'em  come  to  see  him 
to  see  if  he'd  come  forwud  an'  help  out,  an'  he 
seen  Dave  right  here  in  this  room,  an'  Dave 
made  me  stay  an'  hear  the  hull  thing.  Man's 
name  was  Smith,  I  remember,  a  peaked  little  man 
with  long  chin  whiskers  that  he  kep'  clawin'  at 


DAVID   HARUM.  2OI* 

with  his  fingers.  Dave  let  him  tell  his  story,  an' 
he  didn't  say  nothin'  fer  a  minute  or  two,  an'  then 
he  says,  '  What  made  ye  come  to  me?'  he  says. 
1  Did  he  send  ye?' 

"  '  Wa'al,'  says  Smith,  '  when  it  was  clear  that 
he  couldn't  do  nuthin',  we  ast  him  if  the'  wa'n't 
nobody  could  put  up  fer  him,  an'  he  said  you  was 
his  brother,  an'  well  off,  an'  hadn't  ought  to  let 
him  go  t'  the  poorhouse.' 

'  He  said  that,  did  he? '  says  Dave. 

"  '  Amountin'  to  that,'  says  Smith. 

"  '  Wa'al/  says  Dave,  '  it's  a  good  many  years 
sence  I  see  'Lish,  an'  mebbe  you  know  him  better 
'n  I  do.  You  known  him  some  time,  eh?' 

"  '  Quite  a  number  o'  years,'  says  Smith. 

"  '  What  sort  of  a  feller  was  he,'  says  Dave, 
'  when  he  was  somebody?  Putty  good  feller? 
good  citizen?  good  neighber?  lib'ral?  kind  to  his 
fam'ly?  ev'rybody  like  him?  gen'ally  pop'lar,  an' 
all  that?' 

"  '  Wa'al,'  says  Smith,  wigglin'  in  his  chair 
an'  pullin'  out  his  whiskers  three  four  hairs 
to  a  time,  '  I  guess  he  come  some  short  of  all 
that.' 

"'E'umph!'  says  Dave,  'I  guess  he  did! 
Now,  honest,'  he  says,  '  is  the'  man,  woman,  or 
child  in  Whitcom  that  knows  'Lish  Harum  that's 
got  a  good  word  fer  him?  or  ever  knowed  of  his 
doin'  or  sayin'  anythin'  that  hadn't  got  a  mean 
side  to  it  some  way?  Didn't  he  drive  his  wife 
off,  out  an'  out?  an'  didn't  his  two  boys  hev  to 
quit  him  soon  's  they  could  travel?  An','  says 
Dave,  *  if  any  one  was  to  ask  you  to  figure  out  a 
pattern  of  the  meanist  human  skunk  you  was 
capable  of  thinkin'  of,  wouldn't  it — honest,  now ! ' 
Dave  says,  '  honest,  now — wouldn't  it  be  's  near 


2O2 


DAVID    HARUM. 


like  'Lish  Harum  as  one  buckshot  's  like  an 
other?'" 

"  My!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cullom.  "  What  did 
Mr.  Smith  say  to  that?  " 

"  Wa'al,"  replied  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "  he  didn't  say 
nuthin'  at  fust,  not  in  so  many  words.  He  sot 
fer  a  minute  clawin'  away  at  his  whiskers — an' 
he'd  got  both  hands  into  'em  by  that  time — an' 
then  he  made  a  move  as  if  he  gin  the  hull  thing 
up  an'  was  goin'.  Dave  set  lookin'  at  him,  an' 
then  he  says,  '  You  ain't  goin',  air  ye?' 

"'Wa'al/  says  Smith,  '  feelin'  's  you  do,  I 
guess  my  arrant  here  ain't  goin'  t'  amount  to 
nothin',  an'  I  may  's  well.' 

"  '  No,  you  set  still  a  minute/  says  Dave.  *  If 
you'll  answer  my  question  honest  an'  square,  I've 
got  sunthin'  more  to  say  to  ye.  Come,  now/  he 
says. 

"  '  Wa'al/  says  Smith,  with  a  kind  of  give-it- 
up  sort  of  a  grin,  '  I  guess  you  sized  him  up 
about  right.  I  didn't  come  to  see  you  on  'Lish 
Harum's  account.  I  come  fer  the  town  of  Whit- 
com.'  An'  then  he  spunked  up  some  an'  says, 
'  I  don't  give  a  darn/  he  says,  '  what  comes  of 
'Lish,  an'  I  don't  know  nobody  as  does,  fur's  he's 
person'ly  concerned;  but  he's  got  to  be  a  town 
charge  less  'n  you  take  'm  off  our  hands.' 

"  Dave  turned  to  me  an'  says,  jest  as  if  he 
meant  it,  *  How  'd  you  like  to  have  him  here, 
Polly?' 

"  '  Dave  Harum ! '  I  says,  '  what  be  you 
thinkin'  of,  seein'  what  he  is,  an'  alwus  was,  an' 
how  he  alwus  treated  you?  Lord  sakes!'  I 
says,  '  you  ain't  thinkin'  of  it! ' 

"  '  Not  much/  he  says,  with  an  ugly  kind  of 
a  smile,  such  as  I  never  see  in  his  face  before, 


DAVID   HARUM.  203 

'  not  much !  Not  under  this  roof,  or  any  roof  of 
mine,  if  it  wa'n't  more'n  my  cow  stable — an'/  he 
says,  turnin'  to  Smith,  *  this  is  what  I  want  to 
say  to  you:  You've  done  all  right.  I  hain't  no 
fault  to  find  with  you.  But  I  want  you  to  go 
back  an'  say  to  'Lish  Harum  that  you've  seen 
me,  an'  that  I  told  you  that  not  one  cent  of  my 
money  nor  one  mossel  o'  my  food  would  ever  go 
to  keep  him  alive  one  minute  of  time;  that  if  I 
had  an  empty  hogpen  I  wouldn't  let  him  sleep 
in't  overnight,  much  less  to  bunk  in  with  a  de 
cent  hog.  You  tell  him  that  I  said  the  poor- 
house  was  his  proper  dwellin',  barrin'  the  jail,  an' 
that  it  'd  have  to  be  a  dum'd  sight  poorer  house 
'n  I  ever  heard  of  not  to  be  a  thousan'  times  too 
good  fer  him.' " 

"My!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cullom  again.  "I 
can't  really  'magine  it  of  Dave." 

"  Wa'al,"  replied  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "  I  told  ye  how 
set  he  is  on  his  young  days,  an'  nobody  knows 
how  cruel  mean  'Lish  used  to  be  to  him;  but  I 
never  see  it  come  out  of  him  so  ugly  before, 
though  I  didn't  blame  him  a  mite.  But  I  hain't 
told  ye  the  upshot :  '  Now,'  he  says  to  Smith,  who 
set  with  his  mouth  gappin'  open,  '  you  under 
stand  how  I  feel  about  the  feller,  an'  I've  got 
good  reason  for  it.  I  want  you  to  promise  me 
that  you'll  say  to  him,  word  fer  word,  jes'  what 
I've  said  to  you  about  him,  an'  I'll  do  this:  You 
folks  send  him  to  the  poorhouse,  an'  let  him  git 
jes'  what  the  rest  on  'em  gits — no  more  an'  no 
less — as  long  's  he  lives.  When  he  dies  you  git 
him  the  tightest  coffin  you  kin  buy,  to  keep  him 
f'm  spilin'  the  earth  as  long  as  may  be,  an'  then 
you  send  me  the  hull  bill.  But  this  has  got  to 
be  between  you  an'  me  only.  You  c'n  tell  the 


2O4 


DAVID   HARUM. 


rest  of  the  committee  what  you  like,  but  if  you 
ever  tell  a  livin'  soul  about  this  here  understand- 
in',  an'  I  find  it  out,  I'll  never  pay  one  cent,  an' 
you'll  be  to  blame.  I'm  willin',  on  them  terms, 
to  stan'  between  the  town  of  Whitcom  an'  harm; 
but  fer  'Lish  Harum,  not  one  sumarkee!  Is  it 
a  barg'in?  '  Dave  says. 

"  '  Yes,  sir,'  says  Smith,  puttin'  out  his  hand. 
'  An'  I  guess,'  he  says,  *  fin  all  't  I  c'n  gather, 
thet  you're  doin'  all  't  we  could  expect,  an'  more 
too,'  an'  off  he  put." 

"  How  'd  it  come  out?  "  asked  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"  'Lish  lived  about  two  year,"  replied  Aunt 
Polly,  "  an'  Dave  done  as  he  agreed,  but  even 
then  when  he  come  to  settle  up,  he  told  Smith  he 
didn't  want  no  more  said  about  it  'n  could  be 
helped." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Mrs.  Cullom,  "  it  seems  to  me 
as  if  David  did  take  care  on  him  after  all,  fur  's 
spendin'  money  was  concerned." 

"  That's  the  way  it  looks  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Bixbee,  "  but  David  likes  to  think  t'other.  He 
meant  to  be  awful  mean,  an'  he  was — as  mean 
as  he  could — but  the  fact  is,  he  didn't  reelly  know- 
how.  My  sakes!  Cynthy  (looking  at  the  clock), 
I'll  hev  to  excuse  myself  fer  a  spell.  Ef  you 
want  to  do  any  fixin'  up  'fore  dinner,  jest  step 
into  my  bedroom.  I've  laid  some  things  out  on 
the  bed,  if  you  should  happen  to  want  any  of 
'em,"  and  she  hurried  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

DAVID'S  house  stood  about  a  hundred  feet 
back  from  the  street,  facing  the  east.  The  main 
body  of  the  house  was  of  two  stories  (through 
which  ran  a  deep  bay  in  front),  with  mansard 
roof.  On  the  south  were  two  stories  of  the 
"  wing,"  in  which  were  the  "  settin'  room,"  Aunt 
Polly's  room,  and,  above,  David's  quarters.  Ten 
minutes  or  so  before  one  o'clock  John  rang  the 
bell  at  the  front  door. 

"  Sairy's  busy,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  apologetic 
ally  as  she  let  him  in,  "  an'  so  I  come  to  the  door 
myself." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John.  "  Mr. 
Harum  told  me  to  come  over  a  little  before  one, 
but  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  waited  a  few  minutes 
longer." 

"  No,  it's  all  right,"  she  replied,  "  for  mebbe 
you'd  like  to  wash  an'  fix  up  'fore  dinner,  so 
I'll  jes'  show  ye  where  to,"  and  she  led  the 
way  upstairs  and  into  the  "  front  parlor  bed 
room." 

"There,"  she  said,  "  make  yourself  comf'table, 
an'  dinner  '11  be  ready  in  about  ten  minutes." 

For  a  moment  John  mentally  rubbed  his  eyes. 
Then  he  turned  and  caught  both  of  Mrs.  Bixbee's 
hands  and  looked  at  her,  speechless.  When  he 

205 


205  DAVID   HARUM. 

found  words  he  said :  "  I  don't  know  what  to  say, 
nor  how  to  thank  you  properly.  I  don't  believe 
you  know  how  kind  this  is." 

"  Don't  say  nothin'  about  it,"  she  protested, 
but  with  a  look  of  great  satisfaction.  "  I  done  it 
jest  t'  relieve  my  mind,  because  ever  sence  you 
fust  come,  I  ben  worryin'  over  your  bein'  at  that 
nasty  tavern,"  and  she  made  a  motion  to  go. 

"  You  and  your  brother,"  said  John  earnestly, 
still  holding  her  hands,  "  have  made  me  a  gladder 
and  happier  man  this  Christmas  day  than  I  have 
been  for  a  very  long  time." 

"  I'm  glad  on't,"  she  said  heartily,  "  an'  I 
hope  you'll  be  comf'table  an'  contented  here.  I 
must  go  now  an'  help  Sairy  dish  up.  Come 
down  to  the  settin'  room  when  you're  ready,"  and 
she  gave  his  hands  a  little  squeeze. 

"Aunt  Po ,  I  beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Bixbee," 

said  John,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  "  do  you 
think  you  could  find  it  in  your  heart  to  complete 
my  happiness  by  giving  me  a  kiss?  It's  Christ 
mas,  you  know,"  he  added  smilingly. 

Aunt  Polly  colored  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 
"  Wa'al,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  seem'  't 
I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  mother,  I  guess  't 
won't  hurt  me  none,"  and  as  she  went  down  the 
stairs  she  softly  rubbed  her  lips  with  the  side  of 
her  forefinger. 

John  understood  now  why  David  had  looked 
out  of  the  bank  window  so  often  that  morning. 
All  his  belongings  were  in  Aunt  Polly's  best  bed 
room,  having  been  moved  over  from  the  Eagle 
while  he  and  David  had  been  in  the  office.  A  de 
lightful  room  it  was,  in  immeasurable  contrast 
to  his  squalid  surroundings  at  that  hostelry.  The 
spacious  bed,  with  its  snowy  counterpane  and 


DAVID   HARUM.  2O/ 

silk  patchwork  "  comf  table  "  folded  on  the  foot, 
the  bright  fire  in  the  open  stove,  the  big  bureau 
and  glass,  the  soft  carpet,  the  table  for  writing 
and  reading  standing  in  the  bay,  his  books  on 
the  broad  mantel,  and  his  dressing  things  laid  out 
ready  to  his  hand,  not  to  mention  an  ample  sup 
ply  of  dry  towels  on  the  rack. 

The  poor  fellow's  life  during  the  weeks 
which  he  had  lived  in  Homeville  had  been  utterly 
in  contrast  with  any  previous  experience.  Never 
theless  he  had  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  to 
endure  the  monotony,  the  dullness,  the  entire 
lack  of  companionship  and  entertainment  with 
what  philosophy  he  could  muster.  The  hours 
spent  in  the  office  were  the  best  part  of  the  day. 
He  could  manage  to  find  occupation  for  all  of 
them,  though  a  village  bank  is  not  usually  a 
scene  of  active  bustle.  Many  of  the  people  who 
did  business  there  diverted  him  somewhat,  and 
most  of  them  seemed  never  too  much  in  a  hurry 
to  stand  around  and  talk  the  sort  of  thing  that  in 
terested  them.  After  John  had  got  acquainted 
with  his  duties  and  the  people  he  came  in  contact 
with,  David  gave  less  personal  attention  to  the 
affairs  of  the  bank;  but  he  was  in  and  out  fre 
quently  during  the  day,  and  rarely  failed  to  in 
terest  his  cashier  with  his  observations  and  re 
marks. 

But  the  long  winter  evenings  had  been  very 
bad.  After  supper,  a  meal  which  revolted  every 
sense,  there  had  been  as  many  hours  to  be  got 
through  with  as  he  found  wakeful,  an  empty 
stomach  often  adding  to  the  number  of  them,  and 
the  only  resource  for  passing  the  time  had  been 
reading,  which  had  often  been  well-nigh  impos 
sible  for  sheer  physical  discomfort.  As  has  been 


203  DAVID    HARUM. 

remarked,  the  winter  climate  of  the  middle  por 
tion  of  New  York  State  is  as  bad  as  can  be  im 
agined.  His  light  was  a  kerosene  lamp  of  half- 
candle  power,  and  his  appliance  for  warmth  con 
sisted  of  a  small  wood  stove,  which  (as  David 
would  have  expressed  it)  "  took  two  men  an'  a 
boy "  to  keep  in  action,  and  was  either  red 
hot  or  exhausted. 

As  from  the  depths  of  a  spacious  lounging 
chair  he  surveyed  his  new  surroundings,  and  con 
trasted  them  with  those  from  which  he  had  been 
rescued  out  of  pure  kindness,  his  heart  was  full, 
and  it  can  hardly  be  imputed  to  him  as  a  weakness 
that  for  a  moment  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  of 
gratitude  and  happiness — no  less. 

Indeed,  there  were  four  happy  people  at  Da 
vid's  table  that  Christmas  day.  Aunt  Polly  had 
"  smartened  up "  Mrs.  Cullom  with  collar  and 
cuffs,  and  in  various  ways  which  the  mind  of  man 
comprehendeth  not  in  detail;  and  there  had  been 
some  arranging  of  her  hair  as  well,  which  alto 
gether  had  so  transformed  and  transfigured  her 
that  John  thought  that  he  should  hardly  have 
known  her  for  the  forlorn  creature  whom  he  had 
encountered  in  the  morning.  And  as  he  looked 
at  the  still  fine  eyes,  large  and  brown,  and  shin 
ing  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  year  with  a  soft 
light  of  happiness,  he  felt  that  he  could  under 
stand  how  it  was  that  Billy  P.  had  married  the 
village  girl. 

Mrs.  Bixbee  was  grand  in  black  silk  and  lace 
collar  fastened  with  a  shell-cameo  pin  not  quite 
as  large  as  a  saucer,  and  John  caught  the  sparkle 
of  a  diamond  on  her  plump  left  hand — David's 
Christmas  gift — with  regard  to  which  she  had 
spoken  apologetically  to  Mrs.  Cullom: 


DAVID   HARUM.  2Op 

"  I  told  David  that  I  was  ever  so  much 
obliged  to  him,  but  I  didn't  want  a  dimun'  more'n 
a  cat  wanted  a  flag,  an'  I  thought  it  was  jest 
thro  win'  away  money.  But  he  would  have  it — 
said  I  c'd  sell  it  an'  keep  out  the  poorhouse  some 
day,  mebbe." 

David  had  not  made  much  change  in  his 
usual  raiment,  but  he  was  shaved  to  the  blood, 
and  his  round  red  face  shone  with  soap  and  sat 
isfaction.  As  he  tucked  his  napkin  into  his  shirt 
collar,  Sairy  brought  in  the  tureen  of  oyster  soup, 
and  he  remarked,  as  he  took  his  first  spoonful  of 
the  stew,  that  he  was  "  hungry  'nough  t'  eat  a 
graven  imidge,"  a  condition  that  John  was  able 
to  sympathize  with  after  his  two  days  of  fasting 
on  crackers  and  such  provisions  as  he  could  buy 
at  Purse's.  It  was,  on  the  whole,  he  reflected, 
the  most  enjoyable  dinner  that  he  ever  ate. 
Never  was  such  a  turkey;  and  to  see  it  give  way 
under  David's  skillful  knife — wings,  drumsticks, 
second  joints,  side  bones,  breast — was  an  elevat 
ing  and  memorable  experience.  And  such  pota 
toes,  mashed  in  cream;  such  boiled  onions,  tur 
nips,  Hubbard  squash,  succotash,  stewed  toma 
toes,  celery,  cranberries,  "currant  jell!"  Oh'- 
and  to  "  top  off  "  with,  a  mince  pie  to  die  for  and 
a  pudding  (new  to  John,  but  just  you  try  it  some 
time)  of  steamed  Indian  meal  and  fruit,  with  a 
sauce  of  cream  sweetened  with  shaved  maple 
sugar. 

"  What'll  you  have?  "  said  David  to  Mrs.  Cul- 
lom,  "dark  meat?  white  meat?" 

"  Anything,"  she  replied  meekly,  "  I'm  not 
partic'ler.  Most  any  part  of  a  turkey  '11  taste 
good,  I  guess." 

"  All  right,"  said  David.  "  Don't  care  means 
15 


2IO  DAVID   HARUM. 

a  little  o'  both.  I  alwus  know  what  to  give  Polly 
— piece  o'  the  second  jint  an'  the  last-thing- 
over-the-fence.  Nice  'n  rich  fer  scraggly  folks," 
he  remarked.  "  How  fer  you,  John? — little  o' 
both,  eh?"  and  he  heaped  the  plate  till  our 
friend  begged  him  to  keep  something  for  him 
self. 

"  Little  too  much  is  jest  right,"  he  asserted. 

When  David  had  filled  the  plates  and  handed 
them  along — Sairy  was  for  bringing  in  and  tak 
ing  out ;  they  did  their  own  helping  to  vegetables 
and  "  passin'  " — he  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
got  out  of  his  chair  and  started  in  the  direction 
of  the  kitchen  door. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee  in 
surprise.  "  Where  you  goin'?" 

"  Woodshed,"  said  David. 

"Woodshed!"  she  exclaimed,  making  as  if 
to  rise  and  follow. 

"You  set  still,"  said  David.  "Sotnethin1  I 
fergot." 

"  What  on  earth!  "  she  exclaimed,  with  an  air 
of  annoyance  and  bewilderment.  "  What  do  you 
want  in  the  woodshed?  Can't  you  set  down  an' 
let  Sairy  git  it  for  ye?  " 

"  No,"  he  asserted  with  a  grin.  "  Sairy  might 
sqush  it.  It  must  be  putty  meller  by  this  time." 
And  out  he  went. 

"  Manners!  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bixbee.  "  You'll 
think  (to  John)  we're  reg'ler  heathin." 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  John,  smiling  and  much 
amused. 

Presently  Sairy  appeared  with  four  tumblers 
which  she  distributed,  and  was  followed  by  David 
bearing  a  bottle.  He  seated  himself  and  began 
a  struggle  to  unwire  the  same  with  an  ice-pick. 


DAVID   HARUM.  211 

Aunt  Polly  leaned  forward  with  a  look  of  per 
plexed  curiosity. 

"What  you  got  there?"  she  asked. 

"  Vewve  Clikot's  universal  an'  suv'rin  rem 
edy,"  said  David,  reading  the  label  and  bring 
ing  the  corners  of  his  eye  and  mouth  almost 
together  in  a  wink  to  John,  "  fer  toothache,  ear 
ache,  burns,  scalds,  warts,  dispepsy,  fallin'  o' 
the  hair,  windgall,  ringbone,  spavin,  disap- 
p'inted  affections,  an'  pips  in  hens,"  and  out 
came  the  cork  with  a  "  wop"  at  which  both 
the  ladies,  even  Mrs.  Cullom,  jumped  and  cried 
out. 

"  David  Harum,"  declared  his  sister  with  con 
viction,  "  I  believe  thet  that's  a  bottle  of  cham 
pagne." 

"If  it  ain't,"  said  David,  pouring  into  his  tum 
bler,  "  I  ben  swindled  out  o'  four  shillin',"  and 
he  passed  the  bottle  to  John,  who  held  it  up  in 
quiringly,  looking  at  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"  No,  thank  ye,"  she  said  with  a  little  toss  of 
the  head,  "  I'm  a  son  o'  temp'rence.  I  don't  be 
lieve,"  she  remarked  to  Mrs.  Cullom,  "  thet  that 
bottle  ever  cost  less  'n  a  dollar."  At  which  re 
marks  David  apparently  "  swallered  somethin'  the 
wrong  way,"  and  for  a  moment  or  two  was  un 
able  to  proceed  with  his  dinner.  Aunt  Polly 
looked  at  him  suspiciously.  It  was  her  experi 
ence  that,  in  her  intercourse  with  her  brother, 
he  often  laughed  utterly  without  reason — so  far 
as  she  could  see. 

"  I've  always  heard  it  was  dreadful  expen 
sive,"  remarked  Mrs.  Cullom. 

"  Let  me  give  you  some,"  said  John,  reaching 
toward  her  with  the  bottle.  Mrs.  Cullom  looked 
first  at  Mrs.  Bixbee  and  then  at  David. 


2I2  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  I  never  tasted 
any/' 

"  Take  a  little,"  said  David,  nodding  approv 
ingly. 

"  Just  a  swallow,"  said  the  widow,  whose  curi 
osity  had  got  the  better  of  scruples.  She  took  a 
swallow  of  the  wine. 

"  How  do  ye  like  it?  "  asked  David. 

"  Well,"  she  said  as  she  wiped  her  eyes,  into 
which  the  gas  had  driven  the  tears,  "  I  guess  I 
could  get  along  if  I  couldn't  have  it  regular." 

"Don't  taste  good?"  suggested  David  with 
a  grin. 

"  Well,"  she  replied,  "  I  never  did  care  any 
great  for  cider,  and  this  tastes  to  me  about  as  if 
1  was  drinkin'  cider  an'  snuffin'  horseredish  at 
one  and  the  same  time." 

"How's  that,  John?"  said  David,  laughing. 

"  I  suppose  it's  an  acquired  taste,"  said  John, 
returning  the  laugh  and  taking  a  mouthful  of  the 
wine  with  infinite  relish.  "  I  don't  think  I  ever 
enjoyed  a  glass  of  wine  so  much,  or,"  turning  to 
Aunt  Polly,  "  ever  enjoyed  a  dinner  so  much," 
which  statement  completely  mollified  her  feelings, 
which  had  been  the  least  bit  in  the  world  "  set 
edgeways." 

"  Mebbe  your  app'tite's  got  somethin'  to  do 
with  it,"  said  David,  shoveling  a  knife-load  of 
good  things  into  his  mouth.  "  Polly,  this  young 
man's  ben  livin'  on  crackers  an'  salt  herrin'  fer  a 
week." 

"My  land!"  cried  Mrs.  Bixbee  with  an  ex 
pression  of  horror.  "  Is  that  reelly  so?  T  ain't 
now,  reelly?  " 

"  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  John  answered, 
smiling;  "but  Mrs.  Elright  has  been  ill  for  a 


DAVID   HARUM.  213  .. 

couple  of  days  and — well,  I  have  been  foraging 
around  Purse's  store  a  little." 

"  Wa'al,  of  all  the  mean  shames!"  exclaimed 
Aunt  Polly  indignantly.  "  David  Harum,  you'd 
ought  to  be  ridic'lous  t'  allow  such  a  thing." 

''  Wa'al,  I  never!  "  said  David,  holding  his 
knife  and  fork  straight  up  in  either  fist  as  they 
rested  on  the  table,  and  staring  at  his  sister.  "  I 
believe  if  the  meetin'-house  roof  was  to  blow  off 
you'd  lay  it  onto  me  somehow.  I  hain't  ben  run- 
ninr  the  Eagle  tavern  fer  quite  a  consid'able 
while.  You  got  the  wrong  pig  by  the  ear  as 
usual.  Jest  you  pitch  into  him,"  pointing  with 
his  fork  to  John.  "  It's  his  funeral,  if  anybody's." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Aunt  Polly,  addressing  John 
in  a  tone  of  injury,  "  I  do  think  you  might  have 
let  somebody  know;  I  think  you'd  ortter  Ve 
known " 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Bixbee,"  he  interrupted,  "  I  did 
know  how  kind  you  are  and  would  have  been, 
and  if  matters  had  gone  on  so  much  longer  I 
should  have  appealed  to  you,  I  should  have  in 
deed;  but  really,"  he  added,  smiling  at  her,  "a 
dinner  like  this  is  worth  fasting  a  week  for." 

"  Wa'al,"  she  said,  mollified  again,  "  you 
won't  git  no  more  herrin'  'nless  you  ask  fer  'em." 

"  That  is  just  what  your  brother  said  this 
morning,"  replied  John,  looking  at  David  with 
a  laugh. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  meal  proceeded  in  silence  for  a  few  min 
utes.  Mrs.  Cullom  had  said  but  little,  but  John 
noticed  that  her  diction  was  more  conventional 
than  in  her  talk  with  David  and  himself  in  the 
morning,  and  that  her  manner  at  the  table  was 
distinctly  refined,  although  she  ate  with  apparent 
appetite,  not  to  say  hunger.  Presently  she  said, 
with  an  air  of  making  conversation,  "  I  suppose 
you've  always  lived  in  the  city,  Mr.  Lenox?" 

"  It  has  always  been  my  home,"  he  replied, 
"  but  I  have  been  away  a  good  deal." 

"  I  suppose  folks  in  the  city  go  to  theaters  a 
good  deal,"  she  remarked. 

"  They  have  a  great  many  opportunities,"  said 
John,  wondering  what  she  was  leading  up  to. 
But  he  was  not  to  discover,  for  David  broke  in 
with  a  chuckle. 

"  Ask  Polly,  Mis'  Cullom,"  he  said.  "  She 
c'n  tell  ye  all  about  the  theater,  Polly  kin."  Mrs. 
Cullom  looked  from  David  to  Mrs.  Bixbee, 
whose  face  was  suffused. 

"  Tell  her,"  said  David,  with  a  grin. 

"  I  wish  you'd  shet  up,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
sha'n't  do  nothin'  of  the  sort." 

"  Ne'  mind,"  said  David  cheerfully,  "  I'll  tell 
ye,  Mis'  Cullom." 

"  Dave  Harum !  "  expostulated  Mrs.  Bixbee, 
but  he  proceeded  without  heed  of  her  protest. 
214 


DAVID    HARUM. 

"  Polly  an'  I,"  he  said,  "  went  down  to  New 
York  one  spring  some  years  ago.  Her  nerves 
was  some  wore  out  'long  of  difFrences  with  Sairy 
about  clearin'  up  the  woodshed,  an'  bread  risin's, 
an'  not  bein'  able  to  suit  herself  up  to  Purse's  in 
the  qual'ty  of  silk  velvit  she  wanted  fer  a  Sunday- 
go-to-meetin'  gown,  an'  I  thought  a  spell  off  'd  do 
her  good.  Wa'al,  the  day  after  we  got  there  I 
says  to  her  while  we  was  havin'  breakfust — it  was 
picked-up  el'phant  on  toast,  near  's  I  c'n  remem 
ber,  wa'n't  it,  Polly?" 

"  That's  as  near  the  truth  as  most  o'  the  rest 
on't  so  fur,"  said  Polly  with  a  sniff. 

"  Wa'al,  I  says  to  her,"  he  proceeded,  un 
touched  by  her  scorn,  "  '  How'd  you  like  to  go 
t'  the  theater?  You  hain't  never  ben,'  I  says,  '  an' 
now  you're  down  here  you  may  jest  as  well  see 
somethin'  while  you  got  a  chanst,'  I  says.  Up 
to  that  time"  he  remarked,  as  it  were  in  passing, 
"  she'd  ben  somewhat  prejuced  'ginst  theaters, 
an' " 

"Wa'al,"  Mrs.  Bixbee  broke  in,  "I  guess 
what  we  see  that  night  was  cal'lated " 

"  You  hold  on,"  he  interposed.  "  I'm  tellin' 
this  story.  You  had  a  chanst  to  an'  wouldn't. 
Anyway,"  he  resumed,  "  she  allowed  she'd  try 
it  once,  an'  we  agreed  we'd  go  somewheres  that 
night.  But  somethin'  happened  to  put  it  out  o' 
my  mind,  an'  I  didn't  think  on't  agin  till  I  got 
back  to  the  hotel  fer  supper.  So  I  went  to  the 
feller  at  the  news-stand  an'  says,  '  Got  any  show- 
tickits  fer  to-night? ' 

*  Theater?  '  he  says. 
'  I  reckon  so,'  I  says. 

1  Wa'al/  he  says,  '  I  hain't  got  nothin'  now 
but  two  seats  fer  'Clyanthy.' 


2i6  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  '  Is  it  a  good  show? '  I  says — '  moral,  an'  so 
on?  I'm  goin'  to  take  my  sister,  an'  she's  a 
little  -pertic'ler  about  some  things,'  I  says.  He 
kind  o'  grinned,  the  feller  did.  '  I've  took  my 
wife  twice,  an'  she's  putty  pertic'ler  herself,'  he 
says,  laughin.' " 

"  She  must  ?a'  ben,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bixbee 
with  a  sniff  that  spoke  volumes  of  her  opinion  of 
"  the  feller's  wife."  David  emitted  a  chuckle. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  continued,  "  I  took  the  tickits  on 
the  feller's  recommend,  an'  the  fact  of  his  wife's 
bein'  so  pertic'ler,  an'  after  supper  we  went.  It 
was  a  mighty  handsome  place  inside,  gilded  an' 
carved  all  over  like  the  outside  of  a  cirkis  wagin, 
an'  when  we  went  in  the  orchestry  was  playin'  an' 
the  people  was  comin'  in,  an'  after  we'd  set  a  few 
minutes  I  says  to  Polly,  '  What  do  you  think 
on't? '  I  says. 

"  '  I  don't  see  anythin'  very  unbecomin'  so 
fur,  an'  the  people  looks  respectable  enough,' 
she  says. 

"  '  No  jail  birds  in  sight  fur  's  ye  c'n  see  so 
fur,  be  they ? '  I  says.  He,  he,  he,  he!  " 

"  You  needn't  make  me  out  more  of  a  gump 
'n  I  was,"  protested  Mrs.  Bixbee.  "  An'  you  was 
jest  as "  David  held  up  his  finger  at  her. 

"  Don't  you  sp'ile  the  story  by  discountin'  the 
sequil.  Wa'al,  putty  soon  the  band  struck  up 
some  kind  of  a  dancin'  tune,  an'  the  curt'in  went 
up,  an'  a  girl  come  prancin'  down  to  the  foot 
lights  an'  begun  singin'  an'  dancin',  an',  scat  my 
!  to  all  human  appearances  you  c'd  'a'  cov 
ered  ev'ry  dum  thing  she  had  on  with  a  postage 
stamp."  John  stole  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Cullom. 
She  was  staring  at  the  speaker  with  wide-open 
eyes  of  horror  and  amazement. 


DAVID    HARUM. 

"  I  guess  I  wouldn't  go  very  fur  into  pertic'- 
lers,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  in  a  warning  tone. 

David  bent  his  head  down  over  his  plate  and 
shook  from  head  to  foot,  and  it  was  nearly  a  min 
ute  before  he  was  able  to  go  on.  u  Wa'al,"  he  said, 
"  I  heard  Polly  give  a  kind  of  a  gasp  an'  a  snort, 
's  if  some  one  'd  throwed  water  'n  her  face.  But 
she  didn't  say  nothin',  an',  I  swan!  I  didn't  dast 
to  look  at  her  fer  a  spell;  an'  putty  soon  in  come 
a  hull  crowd  more  girls  that  had  left  their  clo'es 
in  their  trunks  or  somewhere,  singin',  an'  dancin', 
an'  weavin'  'round  on  the  stage,  an'  after  a  few 
minutes  I  turned  an'  looked  at  Polly.  He,  he, 
he,  he!" 

"David  Harum! "  cried  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "  ef 
you're  goin'  to  discribe  any  more  o'  them  scand'- 
lous  goin's  on  I  sh'll  take  my  victuals  into  the 
kitchin.  /  didn't  see  no  more  of  'em,"  she  added 
to  Mrs.  Cullom  and  John,  "  after  that  fust  trollop 
appeared." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  did,"  said  David,  "  fer 
when  I  turned  she  set  there  with  her  eys  shut 
tighter  'n  a  drum,  an'  her  mouth  shut  too  so's 
her  nose  an'  chin  most  come  together,  an'  her 
face  was  red  enough  so  't  a  streak  o'  red  paint  'd 
V  made  a  white  mark  on  it.  '  Polly/  I  says, 
'  I'm  afraid  you  ain't  gettin'  the  wuth  o'  your 
money/ 

"  '  David  Harum/  she  says,  with  her  mouth 
shut  all  but  a  little  place  in  the  corner  toward 
me,  '  if  you  don't  take  me  out  o'  this  place,  I'll 
go  without  ye/  she  says. 

"  '  Don't  you  think  you  c'd  stan'  it  a  little 
longer?'  I  says.  '  Mebbe  they've  sent  home  fer 
their  clo'es/  I  says.  He,  he,  he,  he!  But  with 
that  she  jest  give  a  hump  to  start,  an'  I  see  she 


2Ig  DAVID   HARUM. 

meant  bus'nis.  When  Polly  Bixbee,"  said  David 
impressively,  "  puts  that  foot  o'  her'n  down  some- 
thin's  got  to  sqush,  an'  don't  you  fergit  it."  Mrs. 
Bixbee  made  no  acknowledgment  of  this  tribute 
to  her  strength  of  character.  John  looked  at 
David. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  solemn  bend  of  the 
head,  as  if  in  answer  to  a  question,  "  I  squshed. 
I  says  to  her,  *  All  right.  Don't  make  no  dis 
turbance  more'n  you  c'n  help,  an'  jes'  put  your 
hank'chif  up  to  your  nose  's  if  you  had  the  nose 
bleed,'  an'  we  squeezed  out  of  the  seats,  an' 
sneaked  up  the  aisle,  an'  by  the  time  we  got  out 
into  the  entry  I  guess  my  face  was  as  red  as 
Polly's.  It  couldn't  'a'  ben  no  redder,"  he 
added. 

"  You  got  a  putty  fair  color  as  a  gen'ral 
thing,"  remarked  Mrs.  Bixbee  dryly. 

"  Yes,  ma'am;  yes,  ma'am,  I  expect  that's  so," 
he  assented,  "  but  I  got  an  extry  coat  o'  tan  fol- 
lerin'  you  out  o'  that  theater.  When  we  got  out 
into  the  entry  one  o'  them  fellers  that  stands 
'round  steps  up  to  me  an'  says,  *  Ain't  your  ma 
feelin'  well?'  he  says.  'Her  feelin's  has  ben  a 
trifle  rumpled  up,'  I  says,  '  an'  that  gen'ally  brings 
on  the  nosebleed,'  an'  then,"  said  David,  looking 
over  Mrs.  Bixbee's  head,  "  the  feller  went  an' 
leaned  up  agin  the  wall." 

"David  Harum!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bixbee, 
"  that's  a  downright  lie.  You  never  spoke  to  a 
soul,  an' — an' — ev'rybody  knows  't  I  ain't  more  'n 
four  years  older  'n  you  be." 

"  Wa'al,  you  see,  Polly,"  her  brother  replied 
in  a  smooth  tone  of  measureless  aggravation, 
"  the  feller  wa'n't  acquainted  with  us,  an'  he  only 
went  by  appearances." 


DAVID    HARUM.  219 

Aunt  Polly  appealed  to  John :  "  Ain't  he 
enough  to — to — I  d'  know  what?" 

"  I  really  don't  see  how  you  live  with  him," 
said  John,  laughing. 

Mrs.  Cullom's  face  wore  a  faint  smile,  as  if 
she  were  conscious  that  something  amusing  was 
going  on,  but  was  not  quite  sure  what.  The 
widow  took  things  seriously  for  the  most  part, 
poor  soul. 

"  I  reckon  you  haven't  followed  theater-goin' 
much  after  that,"  she  said  to  her  hostess. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  Mrs.  Bixbee  replied  with  em 
phasis,  "  you  better  believe  I  hain't.  I  hain't 
never  thought  of  it  sence  without  tinglin'  all  over. 
I  believe,"  she  asserted,  "  that  David  'd  V  stayed 
the  thing  out  if  it  hadn't  ben  fer  me;  but  as  true 
's  you  live,  Cynthy  Cullom,  I  was  so  'shamed 
at  the  little  't  I  did  see  that  when  I  come  to  go  to 
bed  I  took  my  clo'es  off  in  the  dark." 

David  threw  back  his  head  and  roared  with 
laughter.  Mrs.  Bixbee  looked  at  him  with  un 
mixed  scorn.  "  If  I  couldn't  help  makin'  a " 

she  began,  "  I'd — ~" 

"Oh,  Lord!  Polly,"  David  broke  in,  "be 
sure  'n  wrap  up  when  you  go  out.  If  you  sh'd 
ketch  cold  an'  your  sense  o'  the  ridic'lous  sh'd 
strike  in  you'd  be  a  dead-'n'-goner  sure."  This 
was  treated  with  the  silent  contempt  which  it  de 
served,  and  David  fell  upon  his  dinner  with  the 
remark  that  "  he  guessed  he'd  better  make  up  fer 
lost  time,"  though  as  a  matter  of  fact  while  he 
had  done  most  of  the  talking  he  had  by  no  means 
suspended  another  function  of  his  mouth  while 
so  engaged. 

For  a  time  nothing  more  was  said  which  did 
not  relate  to  the  replenishment  of  plates,  glasses, 


220  DAVID   HARUM. 

and  cups.  Finally  David  cleaned  up  his  plats 
with  his  knife  blade  and  a  piece  of  bread,  and 
pushed  it  away  with  a  sigh  of  fullness,  mentally 
echoed  by  John. 

"  I  feel  's  if  a  child  could  play  with  me,"  he 
remarked.  "What's  comin'  now,  Polly?" 

"The's  a  mince  pie,an' Injun  puddin'with  ma 
ple  sugar  an'  cream,  an'  ice  cream,"  she  replied. 

"  Mercy  on  us! "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  guess  I'll 
have  to  go  an'  jump  up  an'  down  on  the  verandy. 
How  do  you  feel,  John?  I  s'pose  you  got  so 
used  to  them  things  at  the  Eagle  't  you  won't 
have  no  stomech  fer  'em,  eh?  Wa'al,  fetch  'em 
along.  May  's  well  die  fer  the  ole  sheep  's  the 
lamb,  but,  Polly  Bixbee,  if  you've  got  de 
signs  on  my  life,  I  may  's  well  tell  ye  right  now 
't  I've  left  all  my  prop'ty  to  the  Institution  fer 
Disappinted  Hoss  Swappers." 

"  That's  putty  near  next  o'  kin,  ain't  it?  "  was 
the  unexpected  rejoinder  of  the  injured  Polly. 

"  Wa'al,  scat  my  ! "  exclaimed  David, 

hugely  amused,  "  if  Polly  Bixbee  hain't  made  a 
joke!  You'll  git  yourself  into  the  almanic,  Polly, 
fust  thing  you  know."  Sairy  brought  in  the  pie 
and  then  the  pudding. 

"  John,"  said  David,  "  if  you've  got  a  pencil 
an'  a  piece  o'  paper  handy  I'd  like  to  have  ye  take 
down  a  few  of  my  last  words  'fore  we  proceed  to 
the  pie  an'  puddin'  bus'nis.  Any  more  '  hoss- 
redish '  in  that  bottle?"  holding  out  his  glass. 
"Hi!  hi!  that's  enough.  You  take  the  rest 
on't,"  which  John  did,  nothing  loath. 

David  ate  his  pie  in  silence,  but  before  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  attack  the  pudding,  which 
was  his  favorite  confection,  he  gave  an  audible 
chuckle,  which  elicited  Mrs.  Bixbee's  notice. 


DAVID    HARUM.  22T 

"  What  you  gigglin'  'bout  now?  "  she  asked. 

David  laughed.  "  I  was  thinkin'  of  some- 
thin'  I  heard  up  to  Purse's  last  night,"  he  said 
as  he  covered  his  pudding  with  the  thick  cream 
sauce.  "  Amri  Shapless  has  ben  gittin'  mar 
ried." 

"Wa'al,  I  declare!"  she  exclaimed.  "That 
ole  shack!  Who  in  creation  could  he  git  to  take 
him?" 

"  Lize  Annis  is  the  lucky  woman,"  replied 
David  with  a  grin. 

"Wa'al,  if  that  don't  beat  all!"  said  Mrs, 
Bixbee,  throwing  up  her  hands,  and  even  from 
Mrs.  Cullom  was  drawn  a  "  Well,  I  never! " 

"  Fact,"  said  David,  "  they  was  married  yes- 
tidy  forenoon.  Squire  Parker  done  the  job. 
Dominie  White  wouldn't  have  nothin'  to  do 
with  it!" 

"  Squire  Parker  'd  ortter  be  'shamed  of  him 
self,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  indignantly. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  trew  love  had  ought 
to  be  allowed  to  take  its  course?"  asked  David 
with  an  air  of  sentiment. 

"  I  think  the  squire  'd  ortter  be  'shamed  of 
himself,"  she  reiterated.  "  S'pose  them  two  old 
fikinamulinks  was  to  go  an'  have  children?  " 

"  Polly,  you  make  me  blush,"  protested  her 
brother.  "  Hain't  you  got  no  respect  fer  the  holj 
institution  of  matrimuny? — and — at  cet'ry?"  he 
added,  wiping  his  whole  face  with  his  napkin. 

"  Much  as  you  hev,  I  reckon,"  she  retorted. 
"  Of  all  the  amazin'  things  in  this  world,  the 
amazinist  to  me  is  the  kind  of  people  that  gits 
married  to  each  other  in  gen'ral;  but  this  here 
performence  beats  ev'rything  holler." 

"  Amri  give  a  very  good  reason  fort,"  said 


222  DAVID    HARUM. 

David  with  an  air  of  conviction,  and  then  he 
broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  Ef  you  got  anythin'  to  tell,  tell  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Bixbee  impatiently. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  taking  the  last  of  his 
pudding  into  his  mouth,  "  if  you  insist  on't,  pain 
ful  as  't  is.  I  heard  Dick  Larrabee  tellin'  'bout 
it.  Amri  told  Dick  day  before  yestiday  that  he 
was  thinkin'  of  gettin'  married,  an'  ast  him  to  go 
along  with  him  to  Parson  White's  an'  be  a  wit- 
niss,  an'  I  reckon  a  kind  of  moral  support.  When 
it  comes  to  moral  supporting"  remarked  David 
in  passing,  "  Dick's  as  good  's  a  professional,  an' 
he'd  go  an'  see  his  gran'mother  hung  sooner  'n 
miss  anythin',  an'  never  let  his  cigar  go  out  durin' 
the  performence.  Dick  said  he  congratilated  Am 
on  his  choice,  an'  said  he  reckoned  they'd  be 
putty  ekally  yoked  together,  if  nothin'  else." 

Here  David  leaned  over  toward  Aunt  Polly 
and  said,  protestingly,  "  Don't  gi'  me  but  jest  a 
teasp'nful  o'  that  ice  cream.  I'm  so  full  now  't 
I  can't  hardly  reach  the  table."  He  took  a  taste 
of  the  cream  and  resumed:  "  I  can't  give  it  jest 
as  Dick  did,"  he  went  on,  "  but  this  is  about  the 
gist  on't.  Him,  an'  Lize,  an'  Am  went  to  Parson 
White's  about  half  after  seven  o'clock  an'  was 
showed  into  the  parler,  an'  in  a  minute  he  come 
in,  an'  after  sayin'  '  Good  evenin' '  all  'round,  he 
says,  '  Well,  what  c'n  I  do  for  ye? '  lookin'  at  Am 
an'  Lize,  an'  then  at  Dick. 

"  '  Wa'al,'  says  Am,  '  me  an'  Mis'  Annis  here 
has  ben  thinkin'  fer  some  time  as  how  we'd  ought 
to  git  married.' 

: '  Ought  to  git  married? '  says  Parson  White, 
scowlin'  fust  at  one  an'  then  at  t'other. 

" l  Wa'al,'  says  Am,  givin'  a  kind  o'  shuffle 


DAVID   HARUM. 


223 


with  his  feet,  '  I  didn't  mean  ortter  exac'ly,  but 
jest  as  well — kinder  comp'ny,'  he  says.  '  We 
hain't  neither  on  us  got  nobody,  an'  we  thought 
we  might  's  well.' 

"'What  have  you  got  to  git  married  on?' 
says  the  dominie  after  a  minute.  'Anythin'?' 
he  says. 

"  '  Wa'al,'  says  Am,  droppin'  his  head  side 
ways  an'  borin'  into  his  ear  'ith  his  middle  finger, 
'  I  got  the  promise  mebbe  of  a  job  o'  work  fer  a 
couple  o'  days  next  week.'  '  H'm'm'm,'  says  the 
dominie,  lookin'  at  him.  '  Have  you  got  any- 
thin'  to  git  married  on?'  the  dominie  says,  turn- 
in'  to  Lize.  '  I've  got  ninety  cents  comin'  to  me 
fer  some  work  I  done  last  week,'  she  says,  wiltin' 
down  onto  the  sofy  an'  beginnin'  to  snivvle. 
Dick  says  that  at  that  the  dominie  turned  round 
an'  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  an'  he 
c'd  see  he  was  dyin'  to  laugh,  but  he  come  back 
with  a  straight  face. 

"'How  old  air  you,  Shapless?"  he  says  to 
Am.  '  I'll  be  fifty-eight  or  mebbe  fifty-nine  come 
next  spring,'  says  Am. 

'  How  old  air  you? '  the  dominie  says,  turn- 
in'  to  Lize.  She  wriggled  a  minute  an'  says, 
'  Wa'al,  I  reckon  I'm  all  o'  thirty,'  she  says." 

"  All  o'  thirty ! "  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly. 
"  The  woman  's  most  's  old  's  I  be." 

David  laughed  and  went  on  with,  "  Wa'al, 
Dick  said  at  that  the  dominie  give  a  kind  of  a 
choke,  an'  Dick  he  bust  right  out,  an'  Lize  looked 
at  him  as  if  she  c'd  eat  him.  Dick  said  the  dom 
inie  didn't  say  anythin'  fer  a  minute  or  two,  an' 
then  he  says  to  Am, '  I  suppose  you  c'n  find  some 
body  that'll  marry  you,  but  I  cert'inly  won't,  an* 
what  possesses  you  to  commit  such  a  piece  o' 


224  DAVID   HARUM. 

folly/  he  says,  '  passes  my  understandin'.  What 
earthly  reason  have  you  fer  wantin'  to  marry? 
On  your  own  showing'  he  says,  '  neither  one  on 
you  's  got  a  cent  o'  money  or  any  settled  way  o' 
gettin'  any/ 

" '  That's  jest  the  very  reason,'  says  Am, 
'  that's  jest  the  very  reason.  I  hain't  got  nothin', 
an'  Mis'  Annis  hain't  got  nothin',  an'  we  figured 
that  we'd  jes*  better  git  married  an'  settle  down, 
an'  make  a  good  home  fer  us  both/  an'  if  that 
ain't  good  reasonin',"  David  concluded,  "  I  don't 
know  what  is." 

"An'  be  they  actially  married?"  asked  Mrs. 
Bixbee,  still  incredulous  of  anything  so  prepos 
terous. 

"  So  Dick  says,"  was  the  reply.  "  He  says 
Am  an'  Lize  come  away  f'm  the  dominie's  putty 
down  in  the  mouth,  but  'fore  long  Amri  braced 
up  an'  allowed  that  if  he  had  half  a  dollar  he'd 
try  the  squire  in  the  mornin',  an'  Dick  let  him 
have  it.  I  says  to  Dick,  '  You're  out  fifty  cents 
on  that  deal/  an'  he  says,  slappin'  his  leg,  '  I  don't 
give  a  dum/  he  says ;  *  I  wouldn't  'a'  missed  it  fer 
double  the  money.' " 

Here  David  folded  his  napkin  and  put  it  in 
the  ring,  and  John  finished  the  cup  of  clear  coffee 
which  Aunt  Polly,  rather  under  protest,  had 
given  him.  Coffee  without  cream  and  sugar  was 
incomprehensible  to  Mrs.  Bixbee. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Two  or  three  days  after  Christmas  John  was 
sitting  in  his  room  in  the  evening  when  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  to  his  "  Come  in  " 
there  entered  Mr.  Harum,  who  was  warmly  wel 
comed  and  entreated  to  take  the  big  chair,  which, 
after  a  cursory  survey  of  the  apartment  and  its 
furnishings,  he  did,  saying,  "  Wa'al,  I  thought 
I'd  come  in  an'  see  how  Polly'd  got  you  fixed; 
whether  the  baskit  [casket?]  was  worthy  of  the 
jew'l,  as  I  heard  a  feller  say  in  a  theater  once." 

"  I  was  never  more  comfortable  in  my  life," 
said  John.  "  Mrs.  Bixbee  has  been  kindness 
itself,  and  even  permits  me  to  smoke  in  the  room. 
Let  me  give  you  a  cigar." 

"Heh!  You  got  putty  well  'round  Polly,  I 
reckon,"  said  David,  looking  around  the  room 
as  he  lighted  the  cigar,  "  an'  I'm  glad  you're 
comftable — I  reckon  't  is  a  shade  better  'n  the 
Eagle,"  he  remarked,  with  his  characteristic 
chuckle. 

"  I  should  say  so,"  said  John  emphatically, 
"  and  I  am  more  obliged  than  I  can  tell  you." 

"  All  Polly's  doin's,"  asserted  David,  holding 
the  end  of  his  cigar  critically  under  his  nose. 
"  That's  a  trifle  better  article  'n  I'm  in  the  habit 
of  smokin',"  he  remarked. 

"  I  think  it's  my  one  extravagance,"  said  John 


226  DAVID    HARUM. 

semi-apologetically,  "but  I  don't  smoke  them  ex 
clusively.  I  am  very  fond  of  good  tobacco, 
and " 

"  I  understand,"  said  David,  "  an'  if  I  had  my 
life  to  live  over  agin,  knowin'  what  I  do  now,  I'd 
do  diff'rent  in  a  number  o'  ways.  I  often  think," 
he  proceeded,  as  he  took  a  pull  at  the  cigar  and 
emitted  the  smoke  with  a  chewing  movement 
of  his  mouth,  "  of  what  Andy  Brown  used  to  say. 
Andy  was  a  curious  kind  of  a  customer  't  I  used 
to  know  up  to  Syrchester.  He  liked  good  things, 
Andy  did,  an'  didn't  scrimp  himself  when  they 
was  to  be  had — that  is,  when  he  had  the  go-an'- 
fetch-it  to  git  'em  with.  He  used  to  say,  '  Boys, 
whenever  you  git  holt  of  a  ten-dollar  note  you 
want  to  git  it  into  ye  or  onto  ye  jest  's  quick  's 
you  kin.  We're  here  to-day  an'  gone  to-morrer,' 
he'd  say,  '  an'  the'  ain't  no  pocket  in  a  shroud/ 
an'  I'm  dum'd  if  I  don't  think  sometimes,"  de 
clared  Mr.  Harum,  "that  he  wa'n't  very  fur  off 
neither.  T  any  rate,"  he  added  with  a  philoso 
phy  unexpected  by  his  hearer,  "  's  I  look  back,  it 
ain't  the  money  't  I've  spent  fer  the  good  times 
't  I've  had  't  I  regret;  it's  the  good  times  't  I 
might  's  well  Ve  had  an'  didn't.  I'm  inclined  to 
think,"  he  remarked  with  an  air  of  having  given 
the  matter  consideration,  "  that  after  Adam  an' 
Eve  got  bounced  out  of  the  gard'n  they  kicked 
themselves  as  much  as  anythin'  fer  not  havin' 
cleaned  up  the  hull  tree  while  they  was  about  it." 

John  laughed  and  said  that  that  was  very 
likely  among  their  regrets. 

"  Trouble  with  me  was,"  said  David,  "  that  till 
I  was  consid'able  older  'n  you  be  I  had  to  scratch 
grav'l  like  all  possessed,  an'  it's  hard  work  now 
sometimes  to  git  the  idee  out  of  my  head  but 


DAVID    HARUM.  22/ 

what  the  money's  wuth  more  'n  the  things.  I 
guess,"  he  remarked,  looking  at  the  ivory-backed 
brushes  and  the  various  toilet  knick-knacks  of 
cut-glass  and  silver  which  adorned  John's  bureau, 
and  indicating  them  with  a  motion  of  his  hand, 
"  that  up  to  about  now  you  ben  in  the  habit  of 
figurin'  the  other  way  mostly." 

''  Too  much  so,  perhaps,"  said  John;  "but 
yet,  after  all,  I  don't  think  I  am  sorry.  I  wouldn't 
spend  the  money  for  those  things  now,  but  I  am 
glad  I  bought  them  when  I  did." 

"  Jess  so,  jess  so,"  said  David  appreciatively. 
He  reached  over  to  the  table  and  laid  his  cigar 
on  the  edge  of  a  book,  and,  reaching  for  his 
hip  pocket,  produced  a  silver  tobacco  box,  at 
which  he  looked  contemplatively  for  a  moment, 
opening  and  shutting  the  lid  with  a  snap. 

"  There,"  he  said,  holding  it  out  on  his  palm, 
"  I  was  twenty  years  inakin'  up  my  mind  to  buy 
that  box,  an'  to  this  day  I  can't  bring  myself  to 
carry  it  all  the  time.  Yes,  sir,  I  wanted  that  box 
fer  twenty  years.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I 
didn't  spend  the  wuth  of  it  foolishly  times  over 
an'  agin,  but  I  couldn't  never  make  up  my  mind 
to  put  that  amount  o'  money  into  that  pertic'ler 
thing.  I  was  alwus  figurin'  that  some  day  I'd 
have  a  silver  tobacco  box,  an'  I  sometimes  think 
the  reason  it  seemed  so  extrav'gant,  an'  I  put  it 
off  so  long,  was  because  I  wanted  it  so  much. 
Now  I  s'pose  you  couldn't  understand  that,  could 
ye?" 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  nodding  his  head  thought 
fully,  "  I  think  I  can  understand  it  perfectly,"  and 
indeed  it  spoke  pages  of  David's  biography. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  David,  "  I  never  spent  a 
small  amount  o'  money  but  one  other  time  an* 


22g  DAVID  HARUM. 

got  so  much  value,  only  I  alwus  ben  kickin'  my 
self  to  think  I  didn't  do  it  sooner." 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  John,  "  you  enjoyed  it 
all  the  more  for  waiting  so  long." 

"  No,"  said  David,  "  it  wa'n't  that — I  dunno — 
't  was  the  feelin'  't  I'd  got  there  at  last,  I  guess. 
Fur  's  waitin'  fer  things  is  concerned,  the'  is  such 
a  thing  as  waitin'  too  long.  Your  appetite  '11 
change  mebbe.  I  used  to  think  when  I  was  a 
youngster  that  if  ever  I  got  where  I  c'd  have 
all  the  custard  pie  I  c'd  eat  that'd  be  all  't  I'd 
ask  fer.  I  used  to  imagine  bein'  baked  into  one 
an'  eatin'  my  way  out.  Nowdays  trie's  a  good 
many  things  I'd  sooner  have  than  custard  pie, 
though,"  he  said  with  a  wink,  "  I  gen'ally  do  eat 
two  pieces  jest  to  please  Polly." 

John  laughed.  "  What  was  the  other  thing?  " 
he  asked. 

"Other  thing  I  once  bought?  "  queried  David. 
"  Oh,  yes,  it  was  the  fust  hoss  I  ever  owned. 
I  give  fifteen  dollars  fer  him,  an'  if  he  wa'n't  a 
dandy  you  needn't  pay  me*  a  cent.  Crowbait 
wa'n't  no  name  fer  him.  He  was  stun  blind  on 
the  off  side,  an'  couldn't  see  anythin'  in  pertic'ler 
on  the  nigh  side — couldn't  get  nigh  'nough,  I 
reckon — an'  had  most  ev'rythin'  wrong  with  him 
that  c'd  ail  a  hoss;  but  I  thought  he  was  a  thor 
oughbred.  I  was  'bout  seventeen  year  old  then, 
an'  was  helpin'  lock-tender  on  the  Erie  Canal,  an' 
when  the'  wa'n't  no  boat  goin'  through  I  put  in 
most  o'  my  time  cleanin'  that  hoss.  If  he  got 
through  'th  less  'n  six  times  a  day  he  got  off 
cheap,  an'  once  I  got  up  an'  give  him  a  little 
attention  at  night.  Yes,  sir,  if  I  got  big  money's 
wuth  out  o'  that  box  it  was  mostly  a  matter  of 
feelin' ;  but  as  fur  's  that  old  plugamore  of  a  hoss 


DAVID   HARUM. 


229 


was  concerned,  I  got  it  both  ways,  for  I  got  my 
fust  real  start  out  of  his  old  carkiss." 

''  Yes?"  said  John  encouragingly. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  affirmed  David,  "  I  cleaned  him 
up,  an'  fed  him  up,  an'  almost  got  'im  so'st  he 
c'd  see  enough  out  of  his  left  eye  to  shy  at  a 
load  of  hay  close  by;  an'  fin'ly  traded  him  off  fer 
another  record-breaker  an'  fifteen  dollars  to 
boot." 

"  Were  you  as  enthusiastic  over  the  next  one 
as  the  first?"  asked  John,  laughing. 

"  Waal,"  replied  David,  relighting  his  tempo 
rarily  abandoned  cigar  against  a  protest  and 
proffer  of  a  fresh  one — "  wa'al,  he  didn't  lay  holt 
on  my  affections  to  quite  the  same  extent.  I 
done  my  duty  by  him,  but  I  didn't  set  up  with 
him  nights.  You  see,"  he  added  with  a  grin> 
"  I'd  got  some  used  to  bein'  a  hoss  owner,  an'  the 
edge  had  wore  off  some."  He  smoked  for  a 
minute  or  two  in  silence,  with  as  much  apparent 
relish  as  if  the  cigar  had  not  been  stale. 

"  Aren't  you  going  on?  "  asked  John  at  last. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  replied,  pleased  with  his  audience, 
"I  c'd  go  on,  I  s'pose,  fast  enough  an'  fur  enough, 
but  I  don't  want  to  tire  ye  out.  I  reckon  you 
never  had  much  to  do  with  canals?" 

"  No,"  said  John,  smiling,  "  I  can't  say  that 
I  have,  but  I  know  something  about  the  subject 
in  a  general  way,  and  there  is  no  fear  of  your 
tiring  me  out." 

"All  right,"  proceeded  David.  "As  I  was 
sayin',  I  got  another  equine  wonder  an'  fifteen 
dollars  to  boot  fer  my  old  plug,  an'  it  wa'n't  a 
great  while  before  I  was  in  the  hoss  bus'nis  to 
stay.  After  between  two  an'  three  years  I  had 
fifty  or  sixty  hosses  an'  mules,  an'  took  all  sorts 


DAVID   HARUM. 


of  towin'  jobs.  Then  a  big  towin'  concern  quit 
bus'nis,  an'  I  bought  their  hull  stock  an'  got  my 
money  back  three  four  times  over,  an'  by  the  time 
I  was  about  twenty-one  I  had  got  ahead  enough 
to  quit  the  canal  an'  all  its  works  fer  good,  an'  go 
into  other  things.  But  there  was  where  I  got 
my  livin'  after  1  run  away  f'm  Buxton  Hill.  Be 
fore  I  got  the  job  of  lock-tendin'  I  had  made  the 
trip  to  Albany  an'  back  twice  —  '  walkin'  my  pas 
sage/  as  they  used  to  call  it,  an'  I  made  one  trip 
helpin'  steer,  so  't  my  canal  experience  was  putty 
thorough,  take  it  all  'round." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  pretty  hard  life,"  re 
marked  John. 

David  took  out  his  penknife  and  proceeded 
to  impale  his  cigar  upon  the  blade  thereof. 
"  No,"  he  said,  to  John's  proffer  of  the  box,  "  this 
'11  last  quite  a  spell  yet.  Wa'al,"  he  resumed 
after  a  moment,  in  reply  to  John's  remark, 
"  viewin'  it  all  by  itself,  it  was  a  hard  life.  A 
thing  is  hard  though,  I  reckon,  because  it's 
harder  'n  somethin'  else,  or  you  think  so.  Most 
things  go  by  comparin'.  I  s'pose  if  the  gen'ral 
run  of  trotters  never  got  better  'n  three  'n  a  half 
that  a  hoss  that  c'd  do  it  in  three  'd  be  fast,  but 
we  don't  call  'em  so  nowdays.  I  s'pose  if  at  that 
same  age  you'd  had  to  tackle  the  life  you'd  V 
found  it  hard,  an'  the'  was  hard  things  about  it  — 
trampin'  all  night  in  the  rain,  fer  instance;  sleep- 
in'  in  barns  at  times,  an'  all  that;  an'  once  the 
cap'n  o'  the  boat  got  mad  at  somethin'  an'  pitched 
me  head  over  heels  into  the  canal.  It  was  about 
the  close  of  navigation  an'  the'  was  a  scum  of  ice. 
I  scrambled  out  somehow,  but  he  wouldn't  V 
cared  if  I'd  ben  drownded.  He  was  an  -.excep 
tion,  though.  The  canalers  was  a  rough  set  in 


DAVID    HARUM.  231  ~ 

gen'ral,  but  they  averaged  fer  disposition  'bout 
like   the  ord'nary   run  o'   folks;  the'   was   mean 
ones  an'  clever  ones;  them  that  would  put  upon 
ye,  an'  them  that  would  treat  ye  decent.      The 
work  was  hard  an'  the  grub  wasn't  alwus  much 
better  'n  what  you — he,  he,  he! — what  you  ben 
gettin'  at  the  Eagle  "  (John  was  now  by  the  way 
of  rather  relishing  jokes  on  that  subject);  "  but  I 
hadn't  ben  raised  in  the  lap  o'  luxury — not  to  any 
consid'able  extent — not  enough  to  stick  my  nose 
up  much.     The  men  I  worked  fer  was  rough,  an' 
I  got  my  share  of  cusses  an'  cuffs,  an'  once  in  a 
while  a  kick  to  keep  up  my  spirit  of  perseverance ; 
but,  on  the  hull,  I  think  I  got  more  kindness  'n 
I  did  at  home  (leavin'  Polly  out),  an'  as  fer  gen' 
ral  treatment,  none  on  'em  c'd  come  up  to  my 
father,  an'  wuss  yet,  my  oldest  brother  'Lish.  The 
cap'n  that  throwed  me  overboard  was  the  wust, 
but  alongside  o'  'Lish  he  was  a  forty  hosspower 
angil  with  a  hull  music  store  o'  harps;  an'  even 
my  father  c'd  V  given  him  cards  an'  spades;  an' 
as  fer  the  victuals  "  (here  David  dropped  his  cigar 
end  and  pulled  from  his  pocket  the  silver  tobacco 
box) — "  as  fer  the  victuals,"  he  repeated,  "  they 
mostly  averaged  up  putty  high  after  what  I'd  ben 
used  to.     Why,  I  don't  believe  I  ever  tasted  a 
piece  of  beefsteak  or  roast  beef  in  my  life  till  after 
I  left  home.     When  we  had  meat  at  all  it  was 
pork — boiled  pork,  fried  pork,  pigs'  liver,  an'  all 
that,  enough  to  make  you  'shamed  to  look  a  pig 
in  the  face — an'  fer  the  rest,  potatoes,  an'  duff,  an' 
johnny-cake,  an'  meal  mush,  an'  milk  emptins 
bread  that  you  c'd  smell  a  mile  after  it  got  cold. 
With  'leven  folks  on  a  small  farm  nuthin'  c'd 
afford  to  be  eat  that  c'd  be  sold,  an'  ev'rythin' 
that  couldn't  be  sold  had  to  be  eat.     Once  in  a 


232 


DAVID    HARUM. 


while  the'  'd  be  pie  of  some  kind,  or  gingerbread; 
but  with  'leven  to  eat  'em  I  didn't  ever  git  more 
'n  enough  to  set  me  hankerin'." 

"  I  must  say  that  I  think  I  should  have  liked 
the  canal  better,"  remarked  John  as  David 
paused.  "  You  were,  at  any  rate,  more  or  less 
free — that  is,  comparatively,  I  should  say." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  did,"  said  David,  "  an'  I  never 
see  the  time,  no  matter  how  rough  things  was, 
that  I  wished  I  was  back  on  Buxton  Hill.  I 
used  to  want  to  see  Polly  putty  bad  once  in  a 
while,  an'  used  to  figure  that  if  I  ever  growed  up 
to  be  a  man,  an'  had  money  enough,  I'd  buy  her 
a  new  pair  o'  shoes  an'  the  stuff  fer  a  dress,  an' 
sometimes  my  cal'lations  went  as  fur  's  a  gold 
breastpin;  but  I  never  wanted  to  see  none  o'  the 
rest  on  'em,  an'  fer  that  matter,  I  never  did.  Yes, 
sir,  the  old  ditch  was  better  to  me  than  the  place 
I  was  borned  in,  an',  as  you  say,  I  wa'n't  nobody's 
slave,  an'  I  wa'n't  scairt  to  death  the  hull  time. 
Some  o'  the  men  was  rough,  but  they  wa'n't 
cruel,  as  a  rule,  an'  as  I  growed  up  a  little  I 
was  putty  well  able  to  look  out  fer  myself — 
wa'al,  wa'al  (looking  at  his  watch),  I  guess  you 
must  'a'  had  enough  o'  my  meemores  fer  one 
sittin'." 

"  No,  really,"  John  protested,  "  don't  go  yet. 
I  have  a  little  proposal  to  make  to  you,"  and  he 
got  up  and  brought  a  bottle  from  the  bottom  of 
the  washstand. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  "  fire  it  out." 

"  That  you  take  another  cigar  and  a  little  of 
this,"  holding  up  the  bottle. 

"  Got  any  glasses?"  asked  David  with  prac 
tical  mind. 

"  One  and  a  tooth  mug,"  replied  John,  laugh- 


DAVID   HARUM.  233- 

ing.     "  Glass  for  you,  tooth  mug  for  me.    Tastes 
just  as  good  out  of  a  tooth  mug." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  with  a  comical  air  of 
yielding  as  he  took  the  glass  and  held  it  out  to 
John,  "  under  protest,  stric'ly  under  protest — 
sooner  than  have  my  clo'es  torn.  I  shall  tell 
Polly— if  I  should  happen  to  mention  it— that 
you  threatened  me  with  vi'lence.  Wa'al,  here's 
lookin'  at  ye,"  which  toast  was  drunk  with  the 
solemnity  which  befitted  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  two  men  sat  for  a  while  smoking  in 
silence,  John  taking  an  occasional  sip  of  his  grog. 
Mr.  Harum  had  swallowed  his  own  liquor  "  raw," 
as  was  the  custom  in  Homeville  and  vicinity,  fol 
lowing  the  potation  with  a  mouthful  of  water. 
Presently  he  settled  a  little  farther  down  in  his 
chair  and  his  face  took  on  a  look  of  amused  rec 
ollection. 

He  looked  up  and  gave  a  short  laugh. 
"  Speakin'  of  canals,"  he  said,  as  if  the  subject 
had  only  been  casually  mentioned,  "  I  was  think- 
in'  of  somethin'." 

"Yes?"  said  John. 

"  E-up,"  said  David.  "  That  old  ditch  f  m 
Albany  to  Buffalo  was  an  almighty  big  enter 
prise  in  them  days,  an'  a  great  thing  fer  the  pros 
perity  of  the  State,  an'  a  good  many  better  men 
'n  I  be  walked  the  ole  towpath  when  they  was 
young.  Yes,  sir,  that's  a  fact.  Wa'al,  some 
years  ago  I  had  somethin'  of  a  deal  on  with  a 
New  York  man  by  the  name  of  Price.  He  had 
a  place  in  Newport  where  his  fam'ly  spent  the 
summer,  an'  where  he  went  as  much  as  he  could 
git  away.  I  was  down  to  New  York  to  see  him, 
an'  we  hadn't  got  things  quite  straightened  out, 
an'  he  says  to  me,  '  I'm  goin'  over  to  Newport, 
where  my  wife  an'  fam'ly  is,  fer  Sunday,  an'  why 
234 


DAVID   HARUM. 


can't  you  come  with  me,'  he  says,  '  an'  stay  over 
till  Monday?  an'  we  c'n  have  the  day  to  our 
selves  over  this  matter?'  *  Wa'al,'  I  says,  'I'm 
only  down  here  on  this  bus'nis,  an'  as  I  left  a 
hen  on,  up  home,  I'm  willin'  to  save  the  time  'stid 
of  waitin'  here  fer  you  to  git  back,  if  you  don't 
think,'  I  says,  '  that  it'll  put  Mis'  Price  out  any 
to  bring  home  a  stranger  without  no  notice.' 

"  '  Wa'al,'  he  says,  laughin',  *  I  guess  she  c'n 
manage  fer  once,'  an'  so  I  went  along.  When  we 
got  there  the'  was  a  carriage  to  meet  us,  an'  two 
men  in  uniform,  one  to  drive  an'  one  to  open  the 
door,  an'  we  got  in  an'  rode  up  to  the  house  — 
cottige,  he  called  it,  but  it  was  built  of  stone,  an' 
wa'n't  only  about  two  sizes  smaller  'n  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel.  Some  kind  o'  doin's  was  goin' 
on,  fer  the  house  was  blazin'  with  light,  an'  music 
was  playin'. 

"'What's  on?'  says  Price  to  the  feller  that 
let  us  in. 

:  '  Sir  and  Lady  somebody  's  dinin'  here  to 
night,  sir,'  says  the  man. 

;  *  Damn  !  '  says  Price,  '  I  fergot  all  about  the 
cussed  thing.  Have  Mr.  Harum  showed  to  a 
room,'  he  says,  'an'  serve  dinner  in  my  office  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  an'  have  somebody  show 
Mr.  Harum  there  when  it's  ready.' 

"  Wa'al,"  pursued  David,  "  I  was  showed  up 
to  a  room.  The'  was  lace  coverings  on  the  bed 
pillers,  an'  a  silk  an'  lace  spread,  an'  more  dum 
trinkits  an'  bottles  an'  lookin'-glasses  'n  you  c'd 
shake  a  stick  at,  an'  a  bathroom,  an'  Lord  knows 
what  ;  an'  I  washed  up,  an'  putty  soon  one  o'  them 
fellers  come  an'  showed  me  down  to  where  Price 
was  waitin'.  Wa'al,  we  had  all  manner  o'  things 
fer  supper,  an  champagne,  an'  so  on,  an'  after 


236 


DAVID    HARUM. 


we  got  done,  Price  says,  '  I've  got  to  ask  you  to 
excuse  me,  Harum,'  he  says.  '  I've  got  to  go  an' 
dress  an'  show  up  in  the  drawin'-room,'  he  says. 
'  You  smoke  your  cigar  in  here,  an'  when  you 
want  to  go  to  your  room  jes'  ring  the  bell.' 

"  '  All  right,'  I  says.  '  I'm  'bout  ready  to 
turn  in  anyway.' " 

The  narrator  paused  for  a  moment.  John 
was  rather  wondering  what  it  all  had  to  do  with 
the  Erie  Canal,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  Wa'al,  next  mornin',"  David  resumed,  "  I 
got  up  an'  shaved  an'  dressed,  an'  set  'round 
waitin'  fer  the  breakfust  bell  to  ring  till  nigh  on 
to  half-past  nine  o'clock.  Bom-by  the'  came  a 
knock  at  the  door,  an'  I  says,  '  Come  in,'  an'  in 
come  one  o'  them  fellers.  '  Beg  pah'din,  sir,' 
he  says.  '  Did  you  ring,  sir? ' 

"  '  No,'  I  says,  *  I  didn't  ring.  I  was  waitin' 
to  hear  the  bell.' 

"  '  Thank  you,  sir,'  he  says.  '  An'  will  you 
have  your  breakfust  now,  sir? ' 

"'Where?5  I  says. 

"  '  Oh,'  he  says,  kind  o'  grinnin',  '  I'll  bring 
it  up  here,  sir,  d'rec'ly,'  he  says,  an'  went  off. 
Putty  soon  come  another  knock,  an'  in  come  the 
feller  with  a  silver  tray  covered  with  a  big  nap 
kin,  an'  on  it  was  a  couple  of  rolls  wrapped  up  in 
a  napkin,  a  b'iled  egg  done  up  in  another  napkin, 
a  cup  an'  saucer,  a  little  chiney  coffee-pot,  a  little 
pitcher  of  cream,  some  loaf  sugar  in  a  silver  dish, 
a  little  pancake  of  butter,  a  silver  knife,  two  little 
spoons  like  what  the  childern  play  with,  a  silver 
pepper  duster  an'  salt  dish,  an'  an  orange.  Oh, 
yes,  the'  was  another  contraption — a  sort  of  a 
chiney  wineglass.  The  feller  set  down  the  tray 
an*  says,  '  Any  thin'  else  you'd  like  to  have,  sir? ' 


DAVID   HARUM.  23? 

" '  No,'  I  says,  lookin'  it  over,  '  I  guess  there's 
enough  to  last  me  a  day  or  two/  an'  with  that  he 
kind  o'  turned  his  face  away  fer  a  second  or  two. 
'  Thank  you,  sir,'  he  says.  '  The  second  break- 
fust  is  at  half-past  twelve,  sir,'  an'  out  he  put. 
Wa'al,"  David  continued,  "  the  bread  an'  butter 
was  all  right  enough,  exceptin'  they'd  fergot  the 
salt  in  the  butter,  an'  the  coffee  was  all  right; 
but  when  it  come  to  the  egg,  dum'd  if  I  wa'n't 
putty  nigh  out  of  the  race;  but  I  made  up  my 
mind  it  must  be  hard-b'iled,  an'  tackled  it  on  that 
idee.  Seems  t'  amuse  ye,"  he  said  with  a  grin, 
getting  up  and  helping  himself.  After  swallow 
ing  the  refreshment,  and  the  palliating  mouth 
ful  of  water,  he  resumed  his  seat  and  his  nar 
rative. 

"  Wa'al,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  dum'd  egg  was 
about  's  near  raw  as  it  was  when  i'  was  laid,  an' 
the'  was  a  crack  in  the  shell,  an'  fust  thing  I 
knowed  it  kind  o'  c'lapsed,  an'  I  give  it  a  grab, 
an'  it  squirtid  all  over  my  pants,  an'  the  floor,  an' 
on  my  coat  an'  vest,  an'  up  my  sleeve,  an'  all  over 

the  tray.  Scat  my !  I  looked  gen'ally  like 

an  ab'lition  orator  before  the  war.  You  never 
see  such  a  mess,"  he  added,  with  an  expression 
of  rueful  recollection.  "  I  believe  that  dum'd 
egg  held  more  'n  a  pint." 

John  fairly  succumbed  to  a  paroxysm  of 
laughter. 

"  Funny,  wa'n't  it?"  said  David  dryly. 

"  Forgive  me,"  pleaded  John,  when  he  got  his 
breath. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  David,  "  but  it 
wa'n't  the  kind  of  emotion  it  kicked  up  in  my 
breast  at  the  time.  I  cleaned  myself  up  with  a 
towel  well  's  I  couldt  an'  thought  I'd  step  out  an' 


DAVID   HARUM. 

take  the  air  before  the  feller  'd  come  back  to  git 
that  tray,  an'  mebbe  rub  my  nose  in't/' 

"  Oh,  Lord!  "  cried  John. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  David,  unheeding,  "  I  allowed 
't  I'd  walk  'round  with  my  mouth  open  a  spell, 
an'  git  a  little  air  on  my  stomech  to  last  me  till 
that  second  breakfust;  an'  as  I  was  pokin'  'round 
the  grounds  I  come  to  a  sort  of  arbor,  an'  there 
was  Price,  smokin'  a  cigar. 

" '  Mornin',  Harum;  how  you  feelin'?'  he 
says,  gettin'  up  an'  shakin'  hands;  an'  as  we 
passed  the  time  o'  day,  I  noticed  him  noticin'  my 
coat.  You  see  as  they  dried  out,  the  egg  spots 
got  to  show'in'  agin. 

"  '  Got  somethin'  on  your  coat  there,'  he  says. 

" '  Yes,'  I  says,  tryin'  to  scratch  it  out  with 
my  finger  nail. 

"  '  Have  a  cigar? '  he  says,  handin'  one  out. 

*' '  Never  smoke  on  an  empty  stomech,'  I 
says. 

"  '  What?  '  he  says. 

"  l  Bad  fer  the  ap'tite,'  I  says,  '  an'  I'm  savin' 
mine  fer  that  second  breakfust  o'  your'n.' 

"  '  What! '  he  says,  '  haven't  you  had  anythin' 
to  eat? '  An'  then  I  told  him  what  I  ben  tellin' 
you.  Wa'al,  sir,  fust  he  looked  kind  o'  mad  an' 
disgusted,  an'  then  he  laughed  till  I  thought  he'd 
bust,  an'  when  he  quit  he  says,  '  Excuse  me, 
Harum,  it's  too  damned  bad;  but  I  couldn't  help 
laughin'  to  save  my  soul.  An'  it's  all  my  fault 
too,'  he  says.  ' 1  inter  ded  to  have  you  take  your 
breakfust  with  me,  but  somethin'  happened  last 
night  to  upset  me,  an'  I  woke  with  it  on  my  rnind, 
an'  I  fergot.  Now  you  jes'  come  right  into  the 
house,  an'  I'll  have  somethin'  got  fer  you  that'll 
stay  your  stomech  better  'n  air/  he  says. 


DAVID   HARUM. 


239 


"  '  No/  I  says,  '  I've  made  trouble  enough  fer 
one  day,  I  guess/  an'  I  wouldn't  go,  though  he 
urged  me  agin  an'  agin.  '  You  don't  fall  in  with 
the  customs  of  this  region?'  I  says  to  him. 

"  '  Not  in  that  pertic'ler,  at  any  rate/  he  says. 
'  It's  one  o'  the  fool  notions  that  my  wife  an'  the 
girls  brought  home  f'm  Eurup.  I  have  a  good 
solid  meal  in  the  mornin',  same  as  I  alwus  did/ 
he  says." 

Mr.  Harum  stopped  talking  to  relight  his 
cigar,  and  after  a  puff  or  two,  "  When  I  started 
out,"  he  said,  "  I  hadn't  no  notion  of  goin'  into  all 
the  highways  an'  byways,  but  when  I  git  begun 
one  thing's  apt  to  lead  to  another,  an'  you  never 
c'n  tell  jest  where  I  will  fetch  up.  Now  I  started 
off  to  tell  somethin'  in  about  two  words,  an'  I'm 
putty  near  as  fur  off  as  when  I  begun." 

"  Well,"  said  John,  "  it's  Saturday  night,  and 
the  longer  your  story  is  the  better  I  shall  like  it. 
I  hope  the  second  breakfast  was  more  of  a  suc 
cess  than  the  first  one/'  he  added  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  managed  to  average  up  on  the  two  meals, 
I  guess,"  David  remarked.  "  Wa'al,"  he  re 
sumed,  "  Price  an'  I  set  'round  talkin'  bus'nis 
an'  things  till  about  twelve  or  a  little  after,  mebbe, 
an'  then  he  turned  to  me  an'  kind  o'  looked  me 
over  an'  says,  '  You  an'  me  is  about  of  a  build, 
an'  if  you  say  so  I'll  send  one  of  my  coats  an' 
vests  up  to  your  room  an'  have  the  man  take 
yours  an'  clean  'em.' 

"  '  I  guess  the'  is  ruther  more  egg  showin' 
than  the  law  allows/  I  says,  '  an'  mebbe  that  'd 
be  a  good  idee ;  but  the  pants  caught  it  the  wust/ 
I  says. 

"  Minell  fit  ye/  he  says. 

" '  What'll  your  wife  say  to  seem'  me  airifyin' 


240  DAVID    HARUM. 

'round  in  your  git-up?'  I  says.  He  gin  me  a 
funny  kind  of  look.  '  My  wife?'  he  says.  'Lord, 
she  don't  know  more  about  my  clo'es  'n  you  do.' 
That  struck  me  as  bein'  ruther  curious,"  re 
marked  David.  "  Wouldn't  it  you?  " 

"  Very,"  replied  John  gravely. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  David.  "  Wa'al,  when  we 
went  into  the  eatin'  room  the  table  was  full,  most 
ly  young  folks,  chatterin'  an'  laughin'.  Price 
int'duced  me  to  his  wife,  an'  I  set  down  by  him 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  The'  wa'n't  noth- 
in'  wuth  mentioning  nobody  paid  any  attention 
to  me  'cept  now  an'  then  a  word  from  Price, 
an'  I  wa'n't  fer  talkin'  anyway — I  c'd  have  eat 
a  raw  dog.  After  breakfust,  as  they  called  it, 
Price  an'  I  went  out  onto  the  verandy  an'  had 
some  coffee,  an'  smoked  an'  talked  fer  an  hour 
or  so,  an'  then  he  got  up  an'  excused  himself  to 
write  a  letter.  '  You  may  like  to  look  at  the 
papers  awhile,'  he  says.  '  I've  ordered  the  hosses 
at  five,  an'  if  you  like  I'll  show  you  'round  a 
little.' 

"  '  Won't  your  wife  be  wantin'  'em? '  I  says. 

"  '  No,  I  guess  she'll  git  along,'  he  says,  kind 
o'  smilin'. 

"  '  All  right,'  I  says,  '  don't  mind  me.'  An' 
so  at  five  up  come  the  hosses  an'  the  two  fellers 
in  uniform  an'  all.  I  was  lookin'  the  hosses  over 
when  Price  come  out.  '  Wa'al,  what  do  you 
think  of  'em?'  he  says. 

"  '  Likely  pair,'  I  says,  goin'  over  an'  exam- 
inin'  the  nigh  one's  feet  an'  legs.  '  Sore  forr'ed? ' 
I  says,  lookin'  up  at  the  driver. 

"  '  A  trifle,  sir,'  he  says,  touchin'  his  hat. 

"  '  What's  that? '  says'  Price,  comin'  up  an'  ex- 
aminin'  the  critter's  face  an'  head.  '  I  don't  see 


DAVID   HARUM.  24*1 

anythin'  the  matter  with  his  forehead/  he  says. 
I  looked  up  an'  give  the  driver  a  wink,"  said 
David  with  a  chuckle,  "  an'  he  give  kind  of  a 
chokin'  gasp,  but  in  a  second  was  lookin'  as  sol 
emn  as  ever. 

"  I  can't  tell  ye  jes'  where  we  went,"  the  nar 
rator  proceeded,  "  but  anyway  it  was  where  all 
the  nabobs  turned  out,  an'  I  seen  more  style  an' 
git-up  in  them  two  hours  'n  I  ever  see  in  my  life, 
I  reckon.  The'  didn't  appear  to  be  no  one  we 
run  across  that,  accordin'  to  Price's  tell,  was  wuth 
under  five  million,  though  we  may  'a'  passed  one 
without  his  noticin';  an'  the'  was  a  good  many 
that  run  to  fifteen  an'  twenty  an'  over,  an'  most 
on  'em,  it  appeared,  was  f'm  New  York.  Wa'al, 
fin'ly  we  got  back  to  the  house  a  little  'fore  seven. 
On  the  way  back  Price  says,  '  The'  are  goin'  to 
be  three  four  people  to  dinner  to-night  in  a  quiet 
way,  an'  the'  ain't  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't 
stay  dressed  jest  as  you  are,  but  if  you  would  feel 
like  puttin'  on  evenin'  clo'es  (that's  what  he  called 
'em),  why  I've  got  an  extry  suit  that'll  fit  ye  to  a 
"  tee,"  '  he  says. 

'  No,'  I  says,  '  I  guess  I  better  not.  I  reck 
on  I'd  better  git  my  grip  an'  go  to  the  hotel.  I 
sh'd  be  ruther  bashful  to  wear  your  swallertail, 
an'  all  them  folks'll  be  strangers,'  I  says.  But 
he  insisted  on't  that  I  sh'd  come  to  dinner  any 
way,  an'  fin'ly  I  gin  in,  an'  thinkin'  I  might  's 
well  go  the  hull  hog,  I  allowed  I'd  wear  his  clo'es; 
'  but  if  I  do  anythin'  or  say  anythin'  't  you  don't 
like,'  says  I,  '  don't  say  I  didn't  warn  ye.'  What 
would  you  'a'  done?  "  Mr.  Harum  asked. 

"  Worn  the  clothes  without  the  slightest  hesi 
tation,"  replied  John.  "  Nobody  gave  your  cos 
tume  a  thought." 

17 

\ 


DAVID    HARUMo 


"  They  didn't  appear  to,  fer  a  fact,"  said  David> 
"  an'  I  didn't  either,  after  I'd  slipped  up  once  or 
twice  on  the  matter  of  pockets.  The  same  feller 
brought  'em  up  to  me  that  fetched  the  stuff  in 
the  mornin';  an'  the  rig  was  complete  —  coat,  vest, 
pants,  shirt,  white  necktie,  an',  by  gum!  shoes  an' 
silk  socks,  an',  sir,  scat  my  --  !  the  hull  outfit 
fitted  me  as  if  it  was  made  fer  me.  '  Shell  I  wait 
on  you,  sir?'  says  the  man.  *  No,'  I  says,  'I 
guess  I  c'n  git  into  the  things;  but  mebbe  you 
might  come  up  in  'bout  quarter  of  an  hour  an' 
put  on  the  finishin'  touches,  an'  here,'  I  says, 
'  I  guess  that  brand  of  eggs  you  give  me  this 
mornin'  's  wuth  about  two  dollars  apiece.' 

"  '  Thank  you,  sir,'  he  says,  grinnin',  '  I'd  like 
to  furnish  'em  right  along  at  that  rate,  sir,  an' 
I'll  be  up  as  you  say,  sir.'  " 

"  You  found  the  way  to  his  heart,"  said  John, 
smiling. 

"  My  experience  is,"  said  David  dryly,  "  that 
most  men's  hearts  is  located  ruther  closter  to 
their  britchis  pockets  than  they  are  to  their  breast 
pockets." 

"  I'm  afraid  that's  so,"  said  John. 

"  But  this  feller,"  Mr.  Harum  continued, 
"  was  a  putty  decent  kind  of  a  chap.  He  come 
up  after  I'd  got  into  my  togs  an'  pulled  me  here, 
an'  pulled  me  there,  an'  fixed  my  necktie,  an' 
hitched  me  in  gen'ral  so'st  I  wa'n't  neither  too 
tight  nor  too  free,  an'  when  he  got  through, 
'  You'll  do  now,  sir,'  he  says. 

"'Think  I  will?'  says  I. 

"  '  Couldn't  nobody'  look  more  fit,  sir,'  he 
says,  an'  I'm  dum'd,"  said  David,  with  an  assert 
ive  nod,  "  when  I  looked  at  myself  in  the  lookin'- 
glass  I-scurcely  knowed  myself,  an'  (with  a  con- 


DAVID   HARUM. 


fidential  lowering  of  the  voice)  when  I  got  back 
to  New  York  the  very  fust  hard  work  I  done 
was  to  go  an*  buy  the  hull  rig-out— an',"  he 
added  with  a  grin,  "  strange  as  it  may  appear  it 
am  t  wore  out  yit." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"  PEOPLE  don't  dress  for  dinner  in  Home- 
ville,  as  a  rule,  then,"  John  said,  smiling. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  "  when  they  dress  fer 
breakfust  that  does  'em  fer  all  three  meals.  I've 
wore  them  things  two  three  times  when  I've  ben 
down  to  the  city,  but  I  never  had  'em  on  but 
once  up  here." 

"No?  "said  John. 

"  No,"  said  David,  "  I  put  'em  on  once  to 
show  to  Polly  how  city  folks  dressed — he,  he,  he, 
he! — an'  when  I  come  into  the  room  she  set 
forwud  on  her  chair  an'  stared  at  me  over  her 
specs.  '  What  on  airth ! '  she  says. 

"  '  I  bought  these  clo'es,'  I  says,  '  to  wear 
when  bein'  ent'tained  by  the  fust  fam'lies.  How 
do  I  look?'  I  says. 

"'Turn  'round,'  she  says.  *  You  look  f'm 
behind,'  she  says,  '  like  a  red-headed  snappin' 
bug,  an'  in  front,'  she  says,  as  I  turned  agin,  '  like 
a  reg'lar  slinkum.  I'll  bet,'  she  says,  '  that  you 
hain't  throwed  away  less  'n  twenty  dollars  on  that 
foolishniss.'  Polly's  a  very  conservative  person," 
remarked  her  brother,  "  and  don't  never  imagine 
a  vain  thing,  as  the  Bible  says,  not  when  she 
knozvs  it,  an'  I  thought  it  wa'n't  wuth  while  to 
argue  the  point  with  her." 

John  laughed  and  said,  "  Do  you  recall  that 
244 


DAVID   HARUM.  245* 

memorable  interview  between  the  governors  of 
the  two  Carolinas  ?  " 

"  Nothin'  in  the  historical  lit'riture  of  our 
great  an'  glorious  country,"  replied  Mr.  Harum 
reverently,  "  sticks  closter  to  my  mind — like  a 
burr  to  a  cow's  tail,"  he  added,  by  way  of  illustra 
tion.  "  Thank  you,  jest  a  mouthful." 

"  How  about  the  dinner?  "  John  asked  after  a 
little  interlude.  "Was  it  pleasant?" 

11  Fust  rate,"  declared  David.  "  The  young 
folks  was  out  somewhere  else,  all  but  one  o' 
Price's  girls.  The'  was  twelve  at  the  table  all 
told.  I  was  int'duced  to  all  of  'em  in  the  parlor, 
an'  putty  soon  in  come  one  of  the  fellers  an'  said 
somethin'  to  Mis'  Price  that  meant  dinner  was 
ready,  an'  the  girl  come  up  to  me  an'  took  holt 
of  my  arm.  '  You're  goin'  to  take  me  out/  she 
says,  an'  we  formed  a  procession  an'  marched  out 
to  the  dinin'  room.  '  You're  to  sit  by  mammer,' 
she  says,  showin'  me,  an'  there  was  my  name  on 
a  card,  sure  enough.  Wa'al,  sir,  that  table  was 
a  show!  I  couldn't  begin  to  describe  it  to  ye. 
The'  was  a  hull  flower  garden  in  the  middle,  an' 
a  worked  tablecloth;  four  five  glasses  of  all  col 
ors  an'  sizes  at  ev'ry  plate,  an'  a  nosegay,  an'  five 
six  diff'rent  forks  an'  a  lot  o'  knives,  though  fer 
that  matter,"  remarked  the  speaker,  "  the'  wa'n't 
but  one  knife  in  the  lot  that  amounted  to  any- 
thin',  the  rest  on  'em  wouldn't  hold  nothin';  an' 
the'  was  three  four  sort  of  chiney  slates  with  what 
they  call — the — you  'n  me " 

"  Menu,"  suggested  John. 

"  I  guess  that's  it,"  said  David,  "  but  that 
wa'n't  the  way  it  was  spelt.  Wa'al,  I  set  down 
an'  tucked  my  napkin  into  my  neck,  an'  though 
I  noticed  none  o'  the  rest  on  'em  seemed  to  care, 


246 


DAVID   HARUM, 


I  allowed  that  't  wa'n't  my  shirt,  an'  mebbe  Price 
might  want  to  wear  it  agin  'fore  't  was  washed." 

John  put  his  handkerchief  over  his  face  and 
coughed  violently.  David  looked  at  him  sharp 
ly.  "  Subject  to  them  spells?"  he  asked. 

"  Sometimes,"  said  John  when  he  recovered 
his  voice,  and  then,  with  as  clear  an  expression 
of  innocence  as  he  could  command,  but  some 
what  irrelevantly,  asked,  "  How  did  you  get  on 
with  Mrs.  Price?" 

"  Oh,"  said  David,  "  nicer  'n  a  cotton  hat. 
She  appeared  to  be  a  quiet  sort  of  woman  that 
might  'a'  lived  anywhere,  but  she  was  dressed  to 
kill — an'  so  was  the  rest  on  'em,  fer  that  matter," 
he  remarked  with  a  laugh.  "  I  tried  to  tell  Polly 
about  'em  afterwuds,  an' — he,  he,  he! — she  shut 
me  up  mighty  quick,  an'  I  thought  myself  at 
the  time,  thinks  I,  it's  a  good  thing  it's  warm 
weather,  I  says  to  myself.  Oh,  yes,  Mis'  Price 
made  me  feel  quite  to  home,  but  I  didn't  talk 
much  the  fust  part  of  dinner,  an'  I  s'pose  she 
was  more  or  less  took  up  with  havin'  so  many 
folks  at  table ;  but  fin'ly  she  says  to  me,  '  Mr. 
Price  was  so  annoyed  about  your  breakfust,  Mr. 
Harum/ 

"  '  Was  he? '  I  says.  '  I  was  afraid  you'd  be 
the  one  that  'd  be  vexed  at  me.' 

" '  Vexed  with  you?  I  don't  understand,' 
she  says. 

"  *  'Bout  the  napkin  I  sp'iled,'  I  says.  '  Meb 
be  not  actially  sp'iled,'  I  says,  '  but  it'll  have  to 
go  into  the  wash  'fore  it  c'n  be  used  agin.'  She 
kind  o'  smiled,  an'  says,  '  Really,  Mr.  Harum,  I 
don't  know  what  you  are  talkin'  about.' 

"  '  Hain't  nobody  told  ye?  '  I  says.  '  Well,  if 
they  hain't  they  will,  an'  I  may  's  well  make  a 


DAVID   HARUM.  247 

clean  breast  on't.  I'm  awful  sorry/  I  says,  '  but 
this  mornin'  when  I  come  to  the  egg  I  didn't  see 
no  way  to  eat  it  'cept  to  peel  it,  an'  fust  I  knew 
it  kind  of  exploded  and  daubed  ev'rythin'  all 
over  creation.  Yes'm,'  I  says,  '  it  went  off,  's  ye 
might  say,  like  old  Elder  Maybee's  powder.'  I 
guess,"  said  David,  "  that  I  must  'a'  ben  talkin' 
ruther  louder  'n  I  thought,  fer  I  looked  up  an* 
noticed  that  putty  much  ev'ry  one  on  'em  was 
lookin'  our  way,  an'  kind  o'  laughin',  an'  Price  in 
pertic'ler  was  grinnin'  straight  at  me. 

" '  What's  that,'  he  says,  *  about  Elder  May- 
bee's  powder? ' 

"  '  Oh,  nuthin'  much,'  I  says,  '  jest  a  little 
supprise  party  the  elder  had  up  to  his  house.' 

"  '  Tell  us  about  it,'  says  Price.  '  Oh,  yes, 
do  tell  us  about  it,'  says  Mis'  Price. 

"  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  the'  ain't  much  to  it  in  the 
way  of  a  story,  but  seein'  dinner  must  be  most 
through,'  I  says,  '  I'll  tell  ye  all  the'  was  of  it. 
The  elder  had  a  small  farm  'bout  two  miles  out 
of  the  village,'  I  says,  '  an'  he  was  great  on  raisin' 
chickins  an'  turkeys.  He  was  a  slow,  putterin' 
kind  of  an  ole  foozle,  but  on  the  hull  a  putty  de 
cent  citizen.  Wa'al,'  I  says,  '  one  year  when  the 
poultry  was  comin'  along,  a  family  o'  skunks 
moved  onto  the  premises  an'  done  so  well  that 
putty  soon,  as  the  elder  said,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  it  was  comin'  to  be  a  ch'ice  between  the 
chickin  bus'nis  an'  the  skunk  bus'nis,  an'  though 
he  said  he'd  heard  the'  was  money  in  it,  if  it  was 
done  on  a  big  enough  scale,  he  hadn't  ben  edi- 
cated  to  it,  he  said,  and  didn't  take  to  it  any  ways. 
So,'  I  says,  '  he  scratched  'round  an'  got  a  lot  o' 
traps  an'  set  'em,  an'  the  very  next  mornin'  he 
went  out  an'  found  he'd  ketched  an  ole  he-one — 


248  DAVID  HARUM, 

president  of  the  comp'ny.  So  he  went  to  git  his 
gun  to  shoot  the  critter,  an'  found  he  hadn't  got 
no  powder.  The  boys  had  used  it  all  up  on 
woodchucks,  an'  the'  wa'n't  nothin'  fer  it  but  to 
git  some  more  down  to  the  village,  an',  as  he  had 
some  more  things  to  git,  he  hitched  up  'long  in 
the  forenoon  an'  drove  down.'  At  this,"  said 
David,  "  one  of  the  ladies,  wife  to  the  judge,  name 
o'  Pomfort,  spoke  up  an'  says,  '  Did  he  leave 
that  poor  creature  to  suffer  all  that  time? 
Couldn't  it  have  been  put  out  of  it's  misery  some 
other  way  ? ' 

"  '  Wa'al  marm/  I  says,  '  I  never  happened  to 
know  but  one  feller  that  set  out  to  kill  one  o' 
them  things  with  a  club,  an'  he  put  in  most  o' 
his  time  fer  a  week  or  two  up  in  the  woods  hatin 
himself,'  I  says.  '  He  didn't  mingle  in  gen'ral  so- 
ci'ty,  an'  in  fact/  I  says,  *  he  had  the  hull  road  to 
himself,  as  ye  might  say,  fer  a  putty  consid'able 
spell.'  " 

John  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  "  Did 
she  say  any  more?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  David  with  a  chuckle.  "  All  the 
men  set  up  a  great  laugh,  an'  she  colored  up  in 
a  kind  of  huff  at  fust,  an'  then  she  begun  to  laugh 
too,  an'  then  one  o'  the  waiter  fellers  put  some- 
thin'  down  in  front  of  me  an'  I  went  eatin'  agin. 
But  putty  soon  Price,  he  says,  '  Come,'  he  says, 
4  Harum,  ain't  you  goin'  on?  How  about  that 
powder? ' 

"  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  mebbe  we  had  ought  to 
put  that  critter  out  of  his  misery.  The  elder  went 
down  an'  bought  a  pound  o'  powder  an'  had  it 
done  up  in  a  brown  paper  bundle,  an'  put  it 
with  his  other  stuff  in  the  bottom  of  his  dem'crat 
wagin ;  but  it  come  on  to  rain  some  while  he  was 


DAVID  HARUM. 


249 


ridin'  back,  an'  the  stuff  got  more  or  less  wet,  an* 
so  when  he  got  home  he  spread  it  out  in  a  dishpan 
an'  put  it  under  the  kitchen  stove  to  dry,  an' 
thinkin'  that  it  wa'irt  dryin'  fast  enough,  I  s'pose, 
made  out  to  assist  Nature,  as  the  savin'  is,  by 
stirrin'  on't  up  with  the  kitchin  poker.  Wa'al/ 
I  says,  '  I  don't  jes'  know  how  it  happened,  an' 
the  elder  cert'inly  didn't,  fer  after  they'd  got  him 
untangled  f'm  under  what  was  left  of  the  wood 
shed  an'  the  kitchin  stove,  an'  tied  him  up  in 
cotton  battin',  an'  set  his  leg,  an'  put  out  the 
house,  an'  a  few  things  like  that,  bom-by  he  come 
round  a  little,  an'  the  fust  thing  he  says  was, 
"  Wa'al,  wa'al,  wa'al!  "  "  What  is  it,  pa?"  says 
Mis'  Maybee,  bendin'  down  over  him.  "  That 
peowder,"  he  says,  in  almost  no  voice,  "  that 
peowdcr!  I  was  jest  stirrin'  on't  a  little,  an'  it 
went  o-f-f,  it  went  o-f-f,"  he  says,  "  sccmin'ly — 
in — a — minute! "  an'  that,'  I  says  to  Mis'  Price, 
*  was  what  that  egg  done.' 

'  We'll  have  to  forgive  you  that  egg,'  she 
says,  laughin'  like  ev'rything,  '  for  Elder  May- 
bee's  sake';  an'  in  fact,"  said  David,  "they  all 
laughed  except  one  feller.  He  was  an  English 
man — I  fergit  his  name.  When  I  got  through 
he  looked  kind  o'  puzzled  an'  says  "  (Mr.  Harum 
imitated  his  style  as  well  as  he  could),  "  '  But  ra'- 
ally,  Mr.  Harum,  you  kneow  that's  the  way  pow- 
dah  always  geoes  off,  don't  you  kneow,'  an'  then," 
said  David,  "  they  laughed  harder  'n  ever,  an'  the 
Englishman  got  redder  'n  a  beet." 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  asked  John. 

"  Nuthin',"  said  David.  "  They  was  all  laugh- 
in'  so't  I  couldn't  git  in  a  word,  an'  then  the 
waiter  brought  me  another  plateful  of  somethin'. 
Scat  my ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  thought  that 


250 


DAVID  HARUM. 


dinner  'd  go  on  till  kingdom  come.  An'  wine! 
Wa'al!  I  begun  to  feel  somethin'  like  the  old 
feller  did  that  swallered  a  full  tumbler  of  white 
whisky,  thinkin'  it  was  water.  The  old  feller  was 
temp'rence,  an'  the  boys  put  up  a  job  on  him  one 
hot  day  at  gen'ral  trainin'.  Somebody  ast  him 
afterwuds  how  it  made  him  feel,  an'  he  said  he 
felt  as  if  he  was  sittin'  straddle  the  meetin'  house, 
an'  ev'ry  shingle  was  a  Jew's-harp.  So  I  kep* 
mum  fer  a  while.  But  jes'  before  we  fin'ly  got 
through,  an'  I  hadn't  said  nothin'  fer  a  spell,  Mis' 
Price  turned  to  me  an'  says,  '  Did  you  have  a 
pleasant  drive  this  afternoon?' 

"  '  Yes'm/  I  says,  *  I  seen  the  hull  show,  putty 
much.  I  guess  poor  folks  must  be  't  a  premium 
'round  here.  I  reckon/  I  says,  '  that  if  they'd 
club  together,  the  folks  your  husband  p'inted  out 
to  me  to-day  could  almost  satisfy  the  require 
ments  of  the  'Merican  Soci'ty  fer  For'n  Missions.' 
Mis'  Price  laughed,  an'  looked  over  at  her  hus 
band.  'Yes/  says  Price,  'I  told  Mr.  Harum  about 
some  of  the  people  we  saw  this  afternoon,  an'  I 
must  say  he  didn't  appear  to  be  as  much  im 
pressed  as  I  thought  he  would.  How's  that,  Ha 
rum?  '  he  says  to  me. 

"  '  Wa'al/  says  I,  '  I  was  thinkin'  't  I'd  like 
to  bet  you  two  dollars  to  a  last  year's  bird's  nest/ 
I  says,  '  that  if  all  them  fellers  we  seen  this  after 
noon,  that  air  over  fifty,  c'd  be  got  together, 
an'  some  one  was  suddinly  to  holler  "  Low 
BRIDGE  ! "  that  nineteen  out  o'  twenty  'd  duck 
their  heads:  " 

"And  then?"  queried  John. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "all  on  'em  laughed 
some,  but  Price — he  jes'  lay  back  an'  roared, 
and  I  found  out  afterwuds,"  added  David,  "  that 


DAVID   HARUM. 


251 


ev'ry  man  at  the  table,  except  the  Englishman, 
know'd  what  '  low  bridge '  meant  from  actial  ex 
perience.  Wa'al,  scat  my ! "  tie  exclaimed, 

as  he  looked  at  his  watch,  "  it  ain't  hardly  wuth 
while  undressing"  and  started  for  the  door.  As 
he  was  halfway  through  it,  he  turned  and  said, 
"  Say,  I  s'pose  you'd  'a'  known  what  to  do  with 
'that  egg,"  but  he  did  not  wait  for  a  reply. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

IT  must  not  be  understood  that  the  Harums, 
Larrabees,  Robinsons,  Elrights,  and  sundry  who 
have  thus  far  been  mentioned,  represented  the 
only  types  in  the  prosperous  and  enterprising 
village  of  Homeville,  and  David  perhaps  some 
what  magnified  the  one-time  importance  of  the 
Cullom  family,  although  he  was  speaking  of  a 
period  some  forty  years  earlier.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  there  were  now  a  good  many  families,  most 
of  them  descendants  of  early  settlers,  who  lived  in 
good  and  even  fine  houses,  and  were  people  of  re 
finement  and  considerable  wealth.  These  consti 
tuted  a  coterie  of  their  own,  though  they  were  on 
terms  of  acquaintance  and  comity  with  the  "  vil 
lage  people,"  as  they  designated  the  rank  and  file 
of  the  Homeville  population.  To  these  houses 
came  in  the  summer  sons  and  daughters,  nieces, 
nephews,  and  grandchildren,  and  at  the  period  of 
which  I  am  writing  there  had  been  built  on  the 
shore  of  the  lake,  or  in  its  vicinity,  a  number  of 
handsome  and  stately  residences  by  people  who 
had  been  attracted  by  the  beauty  of  the  situation 
and  the  salubrity  of  the  summer  climate.  And 
so,  for  some  months  in  the  pleasant  season,  the 
village  was  enlivened  by  a  concourse  of  visitors 
who  brought  with  them  urban  customs,  cos 
tumes,  and  equipages,  and  gave  a  good  deal  of 
252 


DAVID   HARUM. 


253- 


life  and  color  to  the  village  streets.  Then  did 
Homeville  put  its  best  foot  forward  and  money  in 
its  pouch. 

"  I  ain't  what  ye  might  call  an  old  residenter," 
said  David,  "  though  I  was  part  raised  on  Bux- 
ton  Hill,  an'  I  ain't  so  well  'quainted  with  the 
nabobs;  but  Polly's  lived  in  the  village  ever 
sence  she  got  married,  an'  knows  their  fam'ly  his- 
t'ry,  dam,  an'  sire,  an'  pedigree  gen'ally.  Of 
course,"  he  remarked,  "  I  know  all  the  men  folks, 
an'  they  know  me,  but  I  never  ben  into  none  o' 
their  houses  except  now  an'  then  on  a  matter  of 
bus'nis,  an'  I  guess,"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  "  that 
Polly  'd  allow  't  she  don't  spend  all  her  time  in 
that  circle.  Still,"  he  added,  "  they  all  know  her, 
an'  ev'ry  little  while  some  o'  the  women  folks  '11 
come  in  an'  see  her.  She's  putty  popular,  Polly 
is,"  he  concluded. 

"  I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  remarked  John. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  David,  "  the's  worse  folks  'n 
Polly  Bixbee,  if  she  don't  put  on  no  style;  an'  the 
fact  is,  that  some  of  the  folks  that  lives  here  the 
year  'round,  an'  always  have,  an'  call  the  rest  on 
us  '  village  people,'  Y  jest  as  countryfied  in  their 
way  's  me  an'  Polly  is  in  our'n — only  they  don't 
know  it.  'Bout  the  only  diff'rence  is  the  way 
they  talk  an'  live."  John  looked  at  Mr.  Harum 
in  some  doubt  as  to  the  seriousness  of  the  last 
remark. 

"  Go  to  the  'Piscopal  church,  an'  have  what 
they  call  dinner  at  six  o'clock,"  said  David. 
"  Now,  there's  the  The'dore  Verjooses,"  he  con 
tinued  ;  "  the  'rig'nal  Verjoos  come  an'  settled 
here  some  time  in  the  thirties,  I  reckon.  He  was 
some  kind  of  a  Dutchman,  I  guess  "  ["  Dutch 
man  "  was  Mr.  Harum's  generic  name  for  all  peo- 


254 


DAVID   HARUM. 


pie  native  to  the  Continent  of  Europe] ;  "  but  he 
had  some  money,  an'  bought  land  an'  morgidges, 
an'  so  on,  an'  havin'  money — money  was  awful 
source  in  them  early  days — made  more;  never 
spent  anythin'  to  speak  of,  an'  died  pinchin'  the 
'rig'nal  cent  he  started  in  with." 

"  He  was  the  father  of  Mr.  Verjoos  the  other 
banker  here,  I  suppose?"  said  John. 

"  Yes,"  said  David,  "  the'  was  two  boys  an'  a 
sister.  The  oldest  son,  Alferd,  went  into  the 
law  an'  done  bus'nis  in  Albany,  an'  afterw'ds 
moved  to  New  York ;  but  he's  always  kept  up  the 
old  place  here.  The  old  man  left  what  was  a 
good  deal  o'  propity  fer  them  days,  an'  Alf  he 
kept  his  share  an'  made  more.  He  was  in  the 
Assembly  two  three  terms,  an'  afterw'ds  member 
of  Congress,  an'  they  do  say,"  remarked  Mr.  Ha- 
rum  with  a  wink,  "  that  he  never  lost  no  moray 
by  his  politics.  On  the  other  hand,  The'dore 
made  more  or  less  of  a  muddle  on't,  an'  'mongst 
'em  they  set  him  up  in  the  bankin'  bus'nis.  I 
say  '  them '  because  the  Verjooses,  an'  the  Rog- 
erses,  an'  the  Swaynes,  an'  a  lot  of  'em,  is  all  more 
or  less  related  to  each  other,  but  Alf's  reely  the 
one  at  the  bottom  on't,  an'  after  The  'd  lost  most 
of  his  money  it  was  the  easiest  way  to  kind  o' 
keep  him  on  his  legs." 

"  He  seems  a  good-natured,  easy-going  sort 
of  person,"  said  John  by  way  of  comment,  and, 
truth  to  say,  not  very  much  interested. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  David  rather  contemptuously, 
"  you  could  drive  him  with  a  tow  string.  He 
don't  know  enough  to  run  away.  But  what  I 
was  gettin'  at  was  this:  He  an'  his  wife — he  mar 
ried  one  of  the  Tenakers — has  lived  right  here 
fer  the  Lord  knows  how  long;  born  an'  brought 


DAVID   HARUM.  255 

up  here  both  on  'em,  an'  somehow  we're  '  village 
people '  an'  they  ain't,  that's  all." 

"  Rather  a  fine  distinction,"  remarked  his 
hearer,  smiling. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David.  "Now,  there's  old 
maid  Allis,  relative  of  the  Rogerses,  lives  all 
alone  down  on  Clark  Street  in  an  old  house  that 
hain't  had  a  coat  o'  paint  or  a  new  shingle  sence 
the  three  Thayers  was  hung,  an'  she  talks  about 
the  folks  next  door,  both  sides,  that  she's  knowed 
alwus,  as  '  village  people,'  and  I  don't  believe," 
asserted  the  speaker,  "  she  was  ever  away  f  m 
Homeville  two  weeks  in  the  hull  course  of  her 
life.  She's  a  putty  decent  sort  of  a  woman  too," 
Mr.  Harum  admitted.  "  If  the'  was  a  death  in 
the  house  she'd  go  in  an'  help,  but  she  wouldn't 
never  think  of  askin'  one  on  'em  to  tea." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  heard  it  said,"  remarked 
John,  laughing,  "  that  it  takes  all  sorts  of  people 
to  make  a  world." 

"  I  think  I  hev  heard  a  rumor  to  that  effect," 
said  David,  "  an'  I  guess  the'  's  about  as  much 
human  nature  in  some  folks  as  the'  is  in  others, 
if  not  more." 

"  And  I  don't  fancy  that  it  makes  very  much 
difference  to  you,"  said  John,  "  whether  the  Ver- 
jooses  or  Miss  Allis  call  you  '  village  people ' 
or  not." 

"  Don't  cut  no  figger  at  all,"  declared  Mr. 
Harum.  "  Polly  'n  I  are  too  old  to  set  up  fer 
shapes  even  if  we  wanted  to.  A  good  fair  road- 
gait  's  good  enough  fer  mfc;  three  square  meals, 
a  small  portion  of  the  '  filthy  weed,'  as  it's  called 
in  po'try,  a  hoss  'r  two,  a  ten-dollar  note  where 
you  c'n  lay  your  hand  on't,  an'  once  in  a  while, 
when  your  consciunce  pricks  ye,  a  little  some- 


256  DAVID    HARUM. 

thin'  to  permote  the  cause  o'  temp'rence,  an' 
make  the  inwurd  moniter  quit  jerkin'  the  reins 
— wa'al,  I  guess  I  c'n  git  along,  heh?" 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  by  way  of  making  some  re 
joinder,  "  if  one  has  all  one  needs  it  is  enough." 

"  Wa'al,  yes,"  observed  the  philosopher, 
"  that's  so,  as  you  might  say,  up  to  a  certain 
point,  an'  in  some  ways.  I  s'pose  a  feller  could 
git  along,  but  at  the  same  time  I've  noticed  that, 
gen'ally  speakin',  a  leetle  too  big  's  about  the 
right  size." 

"  I  am  told,"  said  John,  after  a  pause  in  which 
the  conversation  seemed  to  be  dying  out  for 
lack  of  fuel,  and  apropos  of  nothing  in  par 
ticular,  "  that  Homeville  is  quite  a  summer  re 
sort." 

"  Quite  a  consid'able,"  responded  Mr.  Harum. 
"  It  has  ben  to  some  extent  fer  a  good  many 
years,  an'  it's  gettin'  more  an'  more  so  all  the 
time,  only  difFrent.  I  mean,"  he  said,  "  that  the 
folks  that  come  now  make  more  show  an'  most 
on  'em  who  ain't  visitin'  their  relations  either  has 
places  of  their  own  or  hires  'em  fer  the  summer. 
One  time  some  fo^ks  used  to  come  an'  stay  at 
the  hotel.  The'  was  quite  a  fair  one  then,"  he  ex 
plained;  "but  it  burned  up,  an' wa'n't  never  built 
up  agin  because  it  had  got  not  to  be  thought  the 
fash'nable  thing  to  put  up  there.  Mis'  Robinson 
(Dug's  wife),  an'  Mis'  Truman,  'round  on  Lay- 
lock  Street,  has  some  fam'lies  that  come  an'  board 
with  them  ev'ry  year,  but  that's  about  all  the 
boardin'  the'  is  nowdays."  Mr.  Harum  stopped 
and  looked  at  his  companion  thoughtfully  for  a 
moment,  as  if  something  had  just  occurred  to 
him. 

*'  The'  '11  be  more  o'  your  kind  o'  folk  'round, 


DAVID   HARUM.  257 

come  summer,"  he  said;  and  then,  on  a  second 
thought,  "you're  Tiscopal,  ain't  ye?" 

"  I  have  always  attended  that  service,"  replied 
John,  smiling,  "  and  I  have  gone  to  St.  James's 
here  nearly  every  Sunday." 

"  Hain't  they  taken  any  notice  of  ye?  "  asked 
David. 

"  Mr.  Euston,  the  rector,  called  upon  me," 
said  John,  "  but  I  have  made  no  further  acquaint 
ances." 

"  E-um'm! "  said  David,  and,  after  a  moment, 
in  a  sort  of  confidential  tone,  "  Do  you  like  goin' 
to  church?  "  he  asked. 

"Well,"  said  John,  "that  depends— yes,  I 
think  I  do.  I  think  it  is  the  proper  thing,"  he 
concluded  weakly. 

"  Depends  some  on  how  a  feller's  ben 
brought  up,  don't  ye  think  so?"  said  David. 

"  I  should  think  it  very  likely,"  John  assented, 
struggling  manfully  with  a  yawn. 

"  I  guess  that's  about  my  case,"  remarked 
Mr.  Harum,  "  an'  I  sh'd  have  to  admit  that  I 
ain't  much  of  a  hand  fer  church-goin'.  Polly  has 
the  princ'pal  charge  of  that  branch  of  the  bus'nis, 
an'  the  one  I  stay  away  from,  when  I  don't  go," 
he  said  with  a  grin,  "  's  the  Prespyteriun."  John 
laughed. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  David,  "  I  ain't  much  of  a 
hand  for't.  Polly  used  to  worry  at  me  about  it 
till  I  fin'ly  says  to  her,  '  Polly,'  I  says,  '  I'll  tell 
ye  what  I'll  do.  I'll  compermise  with  ye,'  I  says. 
' 1  won't  undertake  to  foller  right  along  in  your 
track — I  hain't  got  the  req'sit  speed,'  I  says,  '  but 
f'm  now  on  I'll  go  to  church  reg'lar  on  Thanks- 
givinY  It  was  putty  near  Thanksgivin'  time," 
he  remarked,  "  an'  I  dunno  but  she  thought  if 


258 


DAVID   HARUM. 


she  c'd  git  me  started  I'd  finish  the  heat,  an'  so 
we  fixed  it  at  that." 

"  Of  course,"  said  John  with  a  laugh,  "  you 
kept  your  promise?  " 

"  Wa'al,  sir,"  declared  David  with  the  utmost 
gravity,  "  fer  the  next  five  years  I  never  missed 
attendin'  church  on  Thanksgivin'  day  but  four 
times ;  but  after  that,"  he  added,  "  I  had  to  beg 
off.  It  was  too  much  of  a  strain,"  he  declared 
with  a  chuckle,  "  an'  it  took  more  time  'n  Polly 
c'd  really  afford  to  git  me  ready."  And  so  he 
rambled  on  upon  such  topics  as  suggested  them 
selves  to  his  mind,  or  in  reply  to  his  auditor's 
comments  and  questions,  which  were,  indeed, 
more  perfunctory  than  otherwise.  For  the  Ver- 
jooses,  the  Rogerses,  the  Swaynes,  and  the  rest, 
were  people  whom  John  not  only  did  not  know, 
but  whom  he  neither  expected  nor  cared  to 
know;  and  so  his  present  interest  in  them  was 
extremely  small. 

Outside  of  his  regular  occupations,  and  de 
spite  the  improvement  in  his  domestic  environ 
ment,  life  was  so  dull  for  him  that  he  could  not 
imagine  its  ever  being  otherwise  in  Homeville. 
It  was  a  year  since  the  world — his  world — had 
come  to  an  end,  and  though  his  sensations  of  loss 
and  defeat  had  passed  the  acute  stage,  his  mind 
was  far  from  healthy.  He  had  evaded  David's 
question,  or  only  half  answered  it,  when  he 
merely  replied  that  the  rector  had  called  upon 
him.  The  truth  was  that  some  tentative  ad 
vances  had  been  made  to  him,  and  Mr.  Euston 
had  presented  him  to  a  few  of  the  people  in  his 
flock;  but  beyond  the  point  of  mere  politeness 
he  had  made  no  response,  mainly  from  indiffer 
ence,  but  to  a  degree  because  of  a  suspicion  that 


DAVID   HARUM.  25-9 

his  connection  with  Mr.  Harum  would  not,  to 
say  the  least,  enhance  his  position  in  the  minds 
of  certain  of  the  people  of  Homeville.  As  has 
been  intimated,  it  seemed  at  the  outset  of  his  ca 
reer  in  the  village  as  if  there  had  been  a  com 
bination  of  circumstance  and  effort  to  put  him 
on  his  guard,  and,  indeed,  rather  to  prejudice 
him  against  his  employer;  and  Mr.  Harum,  as  it 
now  appeared  to  our  friend,  had  on  one  or  two  oc 
casions  laid  himself  open  to  misjudgment,  if  no 
more.  No  allusion  had  ever  been  made  to  the 
episode  of  the  counterfeit  money  by  either  his 
employer  or  himself,  and  it  was  not  till  months 
afterward  that  the  subject  was  brought  up  by 
Mr.  Richard  Larrabee,  who  sauntered  into  the 
bank  one  morning.  Finding  no  one  there  but 
John,  he  leaned  over  the  counter  on  his  elbows, 
and,  twisting  one  leg  about  the  other  in  a  restful 
attitude,  proceeded  to  open  up  a  conversation 
upon  various  topics  of  interest  to  his  mind.  Dick 
was  Mr.  Harum's  confidential  henchman  and  fac 
totum,  although  not  regularly  so  employed.  His 
chief  object  in  life  was  apparently  to  get  as  much 
amusement  as  possible  out  of  that  experience, 
and  he  was  quite  unhampered  by  over-nice  no 
tions  of  delicacy  or  bashfulness.  But,  withal,  Mr. 
Larrabee  was  a  very  honest  and  loyal  person, 
strong  in  his  likes  and  dislikes,  devoted  to  David, 
for  whom  he  had  the  greatest  admiration,  and  he 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  our  friend,  stoutly  main 
taining  that  he  "  wa'n't  no  more  stuck-up  'n  you 
be,"  only,  as  he  remarked  to  Bill  Perkins,  "  he 
hain't  had  the  advantigis  of  your  bringin'  up." 

After  some  preliminary  talk — "  Say/'  he  said 
to  John,  "  got  stuck  with  any  more  county  fit 
money  lately?" 


26o  DAVID   HARUM. 

John's  face  reddened  a  little  and  Dick  laughed. 

"  The  old  man  told  me  about  it,"  he  said. 
"  Say,  you'd  ought  to  done  as  he  told  ye  to. 
You'd  'a'  saved  fifteen  dollars,"  Dick  declared, 
looking  at  our  friend  with  an  expression  of  the 
utmost  amusement. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  John  rather 
stiffly. 

"  Didn't  he  tell  ye  to  charge  'em  up  to  the 
bank,  an'  let  him  take  'em?"  asked  Dick. 

"  Well?  "  said  John  shortly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Larrabee.  "  He 
said  sumpthin'  to  make  you  think  he  was  goin'  to 
pass  'em  out,  an'  you  didn't  give  him  no  show 
to  explain,  but  jest  marched  into  the  back  room 
an'  stuck  'em  onto  the  fire.  Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho!  He 
told  me  all  about  it,"  cried  Dick.  "  Say,"  he  de 
clared,  "  I  dunno  's  I  ever  see  the  old  man  more 
kind  o'  womble-cropped  over  anythin'.  Why, 
he  wouldn't  no  more  'a'  passed  them  bills  'n  he'd 
'a'  cut  his  hand  off.  He,  he,  he,  he!  He  was 
jest  ticklin'  your  heels  a  little,"  said  Mr.  Larrabee, 
"  to  see  if  you'd  kick,  an',"  chuckled  the  speaker, 
"  you  surely  did." 

"  Perhaps  I  acted  rather  hastily,"  said  John, 
laughing  a  little  from  contagion. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Dick,  "  Dave's  got  ways  of  his 
own.  I've  summered  an'  wintered  with  him  now 
for  a  good  many  years,  an'  /  ain't  got  to  the  bot 
tom  of  him  yet,  an',"  he  added,  "  I  don't  know 
nobody  that  has." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

ALTHOUGH,  as  time  went  on  and  John  had 
come  to  a  better  insight  of  the  character  of  the 
eccentric  person  whom  Dick  had  failed  to  fath 
om,  his  half- formed  prejudices  had  fallen  away, 
it  must  be  admitted  that  he  ofttimes  found  him  a 
good  deal  of  a  puzzle.  The  domains  of  the  seri 
ous  and  the  facetious  in  David's  mind  seemed  to 
have  no  very  well  defined  boundaries. 

The  talk  had  drifted  back  to  the  people  and 
gossip  of  Homeville,  but,  sooth  to  say,  it  had  not 
on  this  occasion  got  far  away  from  those  topics. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  "  Alf  Verjoos  is  on 
the  hull  the  best  off  of  any  of  the  lot.  As  I  told 
ye*  he  made  money  on  top  of  what  the  old 
man  left  him,  an'  he  married  money.  The  fam'ly 
— some  on  'em — comes  here  in  the  summer,  an' 
he's  here  part  o'  the  time  gen'ally,  but  the  women 
folks  won't  stay  here  winters,  an'  the  house  is  left 
in  care  of  Alf  s  sister  who  never  got  married.  He 
don't  care  a  hill  o'  white  beans  fer  anything  in 
Homeville  but  the  old  place,  and  he  don't  cal'late 
to  have  nobody  on  his  grass,  not  if  he  knows  it. 
Him  an'  me  are  on  putty  friendly  terms,  but  the 
fact  is,"  said  David,  in  a  semi-confidential  tone, 
"  he's  about  an  even  combine  of  pykery  an'  vini- 
ger,  an'  about  as  pop'lar  in  gen'ral  'round  here 
as  a  skunk  in  a  hen-house;  but  Mis'  Verjoos  is 

261 


262  DAVID   HARUM. 

putty  well  liked;  an'  one  o'  the  girls,  Claricy  is 
her  name,  is  a  good  deal  of  a  fav'rit.  Juliet,  the 
other  one,  don't  mix  with  the  village  folks  much, 
an'  sometimes  don't  come  with  the  fam'ly  at  all. 
She  favors  her  father,"  remarked  the  historian. 

"  Inherits  his  popularity,  I  conclude,"  re 
marked  John,  smiling. 

"  She  does  favor  him  to  some  extent  in  that 
respect,"  was  the  reply;  "  an'  she's  dark  com 
plected  like  him,  but  she's  a  mighty  han'some 
girl,  notwithstandin'.  Both  on  'em  is  han'some 
girls,"  observed  Mr.  Harum,  "  an'  great  fer 
hosses,  an'  that's  the  way  I  got  'quainted  with 
Jem.  They're  all  fer  ridin'  hossback  when  they're 
up  here.  Did  you  ever  ride  a  hoss?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  John,  "  I  have  ridden  a  good 
deal  one  time  and  another." 

"  Never  c'd  see  the  sense  on't,"  declared  Da 
vid.  "  I  c'n  imagine  gettin'  on  to  a  hoss's  back 
when  't  was  either  that  or  walkin',  but  to  do 
it  fer  the  fun  o'  the  thing  's  more  'n  I  c'n  under 
stand.  There  you  be,"  he  continued,  "  stuck  up 
four  five  feet  up  in  the  air  like  a  clo'espin,  haf in' 
your  backbone  chucked  up  into  your  skull,  an' 
takin'  the  skin  off  in  spots  an'  places,  expectin' 
ev'ry  next  minute  the  critter'll  git  out  f'm  under 
ye — no,  sir,"  he  protested,  "  if  it  come  to  be  that 
it  was  either  to  ride  a  hossback  fer  the  fun  o'  the 
thing  or  have  somebody  kick  me,  an'  kick  me 
hard,  I'd  say,  '  Kick  away.'  It  comes  to  the  same 
thing  fur  's  enjoyment  goes,  and  it's  a  dum  sight 
safer." 

John  laughed  outright,  while  David  leaned 
forward  with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  looking  at 
him  with  a  broad  though  somewhat  doubtful 
smile. 


DAVID   HARUM.  263 

"  That  being"  your  feeling,"  remarked  John, 
"  I  should  think  saddle  horses  would  be  rather 
out  of  your  line.  Was  it  a  saddle  horse  that  the 
Misses  Verjoos  were  interested  in?" 

"  Wa'al,  I  didn't  buy  him  fer  that,"  replied 
David,  "  an'  in  fact  when  the  feller  that  sold  him 
to  me  told  me  he'd  ben  rode,  I  allowed  that 
ought  to  knock  twenty  dollars  off  'n  the  price, 
but  I  did  have  such  a  hoss,  an',  outside  o'  that,  he 
was  a  nice  piece  of  hoss  flesh.  I  was  up  to  the 
barn  one  mornin',  mebbe  four  years  ago,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  when  in  drove  the  Verjoos  carriage  with 
one  of  the  girls,  the  oldest  one,  inside,  an'  the 
yeller-haired  one  on  a  hossback.  '  Good  morn 
in'.  You're  Mr.  Harum,  ain't  you?'  she  says. 
*  Good  mornin'/  I  says,  '  Harum's  the  name  't 
I  use  when  I  appear  in  public.  You're  Miss  Ver 
joos,  I  reckon/  I  says. 

"  She  laughed  a  little,  an'  says,  motionin'  with 
her  head  to'ds  the  carriage,  '  My  sister  is  Miss 
Verjoos.  I'm  Miss  Claricy/  I  took  off  my  cap, 
an'  the  other  girl  jest  bowed  her  head  a  little. 

"  '  I  heard  you  had  a  hoss  't  I  could  ride/ 
says  the  one  on  hossback. 

"  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  lookin'  at  her  hoss,  an'  he 
was  a  good  one,"  remarked  David,  "  '  fer  a  saddle 
hoss,  I  shouldn't  think  you  was  entirely  out  o' 
hosses  long's  you  got  that  one.'  '  Oh/  she  says, 
this  is  my  sister's  hoss.  Mine  has  hurt  his  leg 
so  badly  that  I  am  'fraid  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  ride 
him  this  summer.'  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  I've  got 
a  hoss  that's  ben  rode,  so  I  was  told,  but  I  don't 
know  of  my  own  knowinV 

"  '  Don't  you  ride?  '  she  says.  '  Hossbeck? ' 
I  says.  '  Why,  of  course/  she  says.  '  No, 
ma'am/  I  says,  '  not  when  I  c'n  raise  the  money 


264  DAVID   HARUM. 

to  pay  my  fine'  She  looked  kind  o'  puzzled  at 
that,"  remarked  David,  "  but  I  see  the  other  girl 
look  at  her  an'  give  a  kind  of  quiet  laugh." 

"  '  Can  I  see  him?  '  says  Miss  Claricy.  '  Cer- 
t'nly/  I  says,  an'  went  an'  brought  him  out. 
'  Oh!'  she  says  to  her  sister,  'ain't  he  a  beauty? 
C'n  I  try  him? '  she  says  to  me.  '  Wa'al,'  I  says, 
'  I  guess  I  c'n  resk  it  if  you  can,  but  I  didn't  buy 
him  fer  a  saddle  hoss,  an'  if  I'm  to  own  him  fer 
any  len'th  of  time  I'd  ruther  he'd  fergit  the  sad 
dle  bus'nis,  an'  in  any  case,'  I  says,  '  I  wouldn't 
like  him  to  git  a  sore  back,  an'  then  agin,'  I  says, 
'  I  hain't  got  no  saddle.' 

"  '  Wa'al,'  she  says,  givin'  her  head  a  toss,  '  if 
I  couldn't  sit  straight  I'd  never  ride  agin.  I  never 
made  a  hoss's  back  sore  in  my  life,'  she  says. 
'  We  c'n  change  the  saddle/  she  says,  an'  off  she 

jumps,  an',  scat  my  ! "  exclaimed  David, 

"  the  way  she  knowed  about  gettin'  that  saddle 
fixed,  pads,  straps,  girt's,  an'  the  hull  bus'nis,  an' 
put  up  her  foot  fer  me  to  give  her  a  lift,  an*" 
wheeled  that  hoss  an'  went  out  o'  the  yard  a-kitin', 
was  as  slick  a  piece  o'  hoss  bus'nis  as  ever  I  see. 
It  took  fust  money,  that  did,"  said  Mr.  Harum 
with  a  confirmatory  shake  of  the  head.  "  Wa'al," 
he  resumed,  "  in  about  a  few  minutes  back  she 
come,  lickity-cut,  an'  pulled  up  in  front  of  me. 
'  C'n  you  send  my  sister's  hoss  home?'  she  says,. 
'  an'  then  I  sha'n't  have  to  change  agin.  I'll 
stay  on  my  hoss/  she  says,  laughin',  an'  then  agin 
laughin'  fit  to  kill,  fer  I  stood  there  with  my 
mouth  open  clear  to  my  back  teeth,  not  bein' 
used  to  doin'  bus'nis  'ith  quite  so  much  neatniss- 
an'  dispatch,  as  the  sayin'  is. 

"  '  Oh,  it's  all  right/  she  says.  '  Poppa  came 
home  last  night  an'  I'll  have  him  see  you  this 


DAVID    HARUM.  265 

afternoon  or  to-morro'.'  '  But  mebbe  he  'n  I 
won't  agree  about  the  price/  I  says.  '  Yes,  you 
will/  she  says,  '  an'  if  you  don't  I  won't  make  his 
back  sore  ' — an'  off  they  went,  an'  left  me  standin' 
there  like  a  stick  in  the  mud.  I've  bought  an' 
sold  hosses  to  some  extent  fer  a  consid'able  num 
ber  o'  years,"  said  Mr.  Harum  reflectively,  "  but 
that  partic'ler  transaction's  got  a  peg  all  to  itself." 

John  laughed  and  asked,  "  How  did  it  come 
out?  I  mean,  what  sort  of  an  interview  did  you 
have  with  the  young  woman's  father,  the  popular 
Mr.  Verjoos?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  David,  "  he  druv  up  to  the  office 
the  next  mornin',  'bout  ten  o'clock,  an'  come  into 
the  back  room  here,  an'  after  we'd  passed  the 
time  o'  day,  he  says,  clearin'  his  throat  in  a  way 
he's  g-ot,  '  He-uh,  he-uh! '  he  says,  '  my  daughter 
tells  me  that  she  run  off  with  a  hoss  of  yours 
yestidy  in  rather  a  summery  manner,  an — he-uh- 
uh — I  have  come  to  see  you  about  payin'  fer  him. 
What  is  the  price? '  he  says. 

4  Wa'al/  I  says,  more  'n  anythin'  to  see  what 
he'd  say,  '  what  would  you  say  he  was  wuth?'  An" 
with  that  he  kind  o'  stiffened  a  little  stiffer  'n  he 
was  before,  if  it  could  be. 

"  '  Really/  he  says,  *  he-uh-uh,  I  haven't  any 
idea.  I  haven't  seen  the  animal,  an'  I  should  not 
consider  myself  qual'fied  to  give  an  opinion  upon 
his  value  if  I  had,  but/  he  says,  '  I  don't  know 
that  that  makes  any  material  diff'rence,  however, 
because  I  am  quite — he-uh,  he-uh — in  your  hands 
— he-uh! — within  limits — he-uh-uh! — within  lim 
its/  he  says.  That  kind  o'  riled  me,"  remarked 
David.  "  I  see  in  a  minute  what  was  passin'  in  his 
mind.  '  Wa'al,'  I  says,  '  Mr.  Verjoos,  I  guess  the 
fact  o'  the  matter  is  't  I'm  about  as  much  in  the 
18 


266  DAVID    HARUM. 

mud  as  you  be  in  the  mire — your  daughter's  got 
my  hoss/  I  says.  '  Now  you  ain't  dealin'  with  a 
hoss  jockey,'  I  says,  '  though  I  don't  deny  that  I 
buy  an'  sell  hosses,  an'  once  in  a  while  make 
money  at  it.  You're  dealin'  with  David  Ha- 
rum,  Banker,  an'  I  consider  't  I'm  dealin'  with 
a  lady,  or  the  father  of  one  on  her  account/  I 
says. 

" '  He-uh,  he-uh !  I  meant  no  offense,  sir,'  he 
says. 

"  '  None  bein'  meant,  none  will  be  took/  I 
says.     '  Now/  I  says,  '  I  was  offered  one-seventy- 
five  fer  that  hoss  day  before  yestidy,  an'  wouldn't 
take  it.     I  can't  sell  him  fer  that/  I  says. 
'  He-uh,  uh!  cert'nly  not/  he  says. 

"  '  Wait  a  minit/  I  says.  '  I  can't  sell  him  fer 
that  because  I  said  I  wouldn't;  but  if  you  feel 
like  drawin'  your  check  fer  one-seventy-jur/  I 
says,  '  we'll  call  it  a  deal.' "  The  speaker  paused 
with  a  chuckle. 

"Well?"  said  John. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "he,  he,  he,  he!  That 
clean  took  the  wind  out  of  him,  an'  he  got  redder 
'n  a  beet.  '  He-uh-uh-uh-huh!  really/  he  says, 
*  I  couldn't  think  of  offerin'  you  less  than  two 
hunderd.' 

( '  All  right/  I  says,  '  I'll  send  up  fer  the  hoss. 
One-seventy-six  is  my  price,  no  more  an'  no 
less/  an'  I  got  up  out  o'  my  chair." 

"  And  what  did  he  say  then?  "  asked  John. 

"  Wa'al,"  replied  Mr.  Harum,  "  he  settled  his 
neck  down  into  his  collar  an'  necktie  an'  cleared 
his  throat  a  few  times,  an'  says,  '  You  put  me  in 
ruther  an  embarrassin'  position,  Mr.  Harum. 
My  daughter  has  set  her  heart  on  the  hoss,  an' 
— he-uh-uh-uh ! ' — with  a  kind  of  a  smile  like  a 


DAVID   HARUM.  26/ 

wrinkle  in  a  boot,  '  I  can't  very  well  tell  her  that 
I  wouldn't  buy  him  because  you  wouldn't  accept 
a  higher  offer  than  your  own  price.  I — I  think 
I  must  accede  to  your  proposition,  an' — he-uh-uh 
— accept  the  favor,'  he  says,  draggin'  the  words 
out  by  the  roots. 

"  '  No  favor  at  all/  I  says,  '  not  a  bit  on't,  not 
a  bit  on't.  It  was  the  cleanest  an'  slickist  deal 
I  ever  had/  I  says,  '  an'  I've  had  a  good  many. 
That  girl  o'  your'n/  I  says,  '  if  you  don't  mind 
my  sayin'  it,  comes  as  near  bein'  a  full  team  an'  a 
cross  dog  under  the  wagin  as  you  c'n  git ;  an'  you 
c'n  tell  her  if  you  think  fit/  I  says,  '  that  if  she 
ever  wants  anythin'  more  out  o'  my  barn  I'll 
throw  off  twenty-four  dollars  ev'ry  time,  if  she'll 
only  do  her  own  buyinV 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  "  I  didn't  know 
but  what  he'd  gag  a  little  at  that,  but  he  didn't 
seem  to,  an'  when  he  went  off  after  givin'  me  his 
check,  he  put  out  his  hand  an'  shook  hands,  a 
thing  he  never  done  before." 

"  That  was  really  very  amusing,"  was  John's 
comment. 

"  T  wa'n't  a  bad  day's  work  either,"  observed 
Mr.  Harum.  "  I've  sold  the  crowd  a  good  many 
hosses  since  then,  an'  I've  laughed  a  thousan* 
times  over  that  pertic'ler  trade.  Me  'n  Miss  Clar- 
icy,"  he  added,  "  has  alwus  ben  good  friends 
sence  that  time — an'  she  'n  Polly  are  reg'lar  neet- 
ups.  She  never  sees  me  in  the  street  but  what 
it's  'How  dee  do,  Mr.  H-a-rum?'  An'  I'll  say, 
*  Ain't  that  ole  hoss  wore  out  yet?'  or,  'When 
you  comin'  'round  to  run  off  with  another  hoss?* 
I'll  say." 

At  this  point  David  got  out  of  his  chair,, 
yawned,  and  walked  over  to  the  window. 


DAVID   HARUM. 


"  Did  you  ever  in  all  your  born  days,"  he  said, 
"  see  such  dum'd  weather?  Jest  look  out  there 
_  no  sleighin',  no  wheelin',  an'  a  barn  full  wanting 
exercise.  Wa'al,  I  guess  I'll  be  moseyin'  along." 
And  out  he  went. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

IF  John  Lenox  had  kept  a  diary  for  the  first 
year  of  his  life  in  Homeville  most  of  its  pages 
would  have  been  blank. 

The  daily  routine  of  the  office  (he  had  no 
assistant  but  the  callow  Hopkins)  was  more  ex 
acting  than  laborious,  but  it  kept  him  confined 
seven  hours  in  the  twenty-four.  Still,  there  was 
time  in  the  lengthened  days  as  the  year  advanced 
for  walking,  rowing,  and  riding  or  driving  about 
the  picturesque  country  which  surrounds  Home 
ville.  He  and  Mr.  Harum  often  drove  together 
after  the  bank  closed,  or  after  "  tea,"  and  it 
was  a  pleasure  in  itself  to  observe  David's  dex 
terous  handling  of  his  horses,  and  his  content  and 
satisfaction  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  favorite  pas 
time.  In  pursuit  of  business  he  "  jogged  'round," 
as  he  said,  behind  the  faithful  Jinny,  but  when 
on  pleasure  bent,  a  pair  of  satin-coated  trotters 
drew  him  in  the  latest  and  "  slickest "  model  of 
top-buggies. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  I'd  ruther  ride  all 
alone  than  not  to  ride  at  all,  but  the's  twice  as 
much  fun  in't  when  you've  got  somebody  along. 
I  ain't  much  of  a  talker,  unless  I  happen  to  git 
started "  (at  which  assertion  John  repressed  a 
smile),  "  but  once  in  a  while  I  like  to  have  some 
body  to  say  somethin'  to.  You  like  to  come 
along,  don't  ye?" 

269 


279 


DAVID   HARUM. 


"  Very  much  indeed." 

"  I  used  to  git  Polly  to  come  once  in  a  while," 
said  David,  "  but  it  wa'n't  no  pleasure  to  her. 
She  hadn't  never  ben  used  to  hosses  an'  alwus 
set  on  the  edge  of  the  seat  ready  to  jump,  an'  if 
one  o'  the  critters  capered  a  little  she'd  want  to 
git  right  out  then  an'  there.  I  reckon  she  never 
went  out  but  what  she  thanked  mercy  when  she 
struck  the  hoss  block  to  git  back  with  hull 
bones." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought  that  she  would 
have  been  nervous  with  the  reins  in  your  hands," 
said  John. 

"Wa'al,"  replied  David,  "the  last  time  she 
come  along  somethin'  give  the  team  a  little  scare 
an'  she  reached  over  an'  made  a  grab  at  the  lines. 
That,"  he  remarked  with  a  grin,  "  was  quite  a 
good  while  ago.  I  says  to  her  when  we  got 
home,  '  I  guess  after  this  you'd  better  take  your 
airin's  on  a  stun-boat.  You  won't  be  so  lia 
ble  to  git  run  away  with  an'  throwed  out,'  I 
says." 

John  laughed  a  little,  but  made  no  comment. 

"  After  all,"  said  David,  "  I  dunno  's  I  blamed 
her  fer  bein'  skittish,  but  I  couldn't  have  her 
grabbin'  the  lines.  It's  curi's,"  he  reflected,  "  I 
didn't  used  to  mind  what  I  rode  behind,  nor  who 
done  the  drivin',  but  I'd  have  to  admit  that  as  I 
git  older  I  prefer  to  do  it  myself.  I  ride  ev'ry 
once  in  a  while  with  fellers  that  c'n  drive  as  well, 
an'  mebbe  better,  'n  I  can,  an'  I  know  it,  but  if 
anythin'  turns  up,  or  looks  like  it,  I  can't  help 
wishin'  't  I  had  holt  o'  the  lines  myself." 

The  two  passed  a  good  many  hours  together 
thus  beguiling  the  time.  Whatever  David's  other 
merits  as  a  companion,  he  was  not  exacting  of 


DAVID   HARUM. 

response    when    engaged    in    conversation,    and 
rarely  made  any  demands  upon  his  auditor. 

During  that  first  year  John  made  few  addi 
tions  to  his  social  acquaintance,  and  if  in  the 
summer  the  sight  of  a  gay  party  of  young  peo 
ple  caused  some  stirrings  in  his  breast,  they  were 
not  strong  enough  to  induce  him  to  make 
any  attempts  toward  the  acquaintance  which 
he  might  have  formed.  He  was  often  conscious 
of  glances  of  curiosity  directed  toward  him 
self,  and  Mr.  Euston  was  asked  a  good  many 
questions  about  the  latest  addition  to  his  congre 
gation. 

Yes,  he  had  called  upon  Mr.  Lenox  and  his 
call  had  been  returned.  In  fact,  they  had  had 
several  visits  together — had  met  out  walking 
once  and  had  gone  on  in  company.  Was  Mr. 
Lenox  "  nice  "?  Yes,  he  had  made  a  pleasant  im 
pression  upon  Mr.  Euston,  and  seemed  to  be  a 
person  of  intelligence  and  good  breeding — very 
gentlemanlike.  Why  did  not  people  know  him? 
Well,  Mr.  Euston  had  made  some  proffers  to  that 
end,  but  Mr.  Lenox  had  merely  expressed  his 
thanks.  No,  Mr.  Euston  did  not  know  how  he 
happened  to  be  in  Homeville  and  employed  by 
that  queer  old  Mr.  Harum,  and  living  with  him 
and  his  funny  old  sister;  Mr.  Lenox  had  not  con 
fided  in  him  at  all,  and  though  very  civil  and 
pleasant,  did  not  appear  to  wish  to  be  communi-? 
cative. 

So  our  friend  did  not  make  his  entrance  that 
season  into  the  drawing  or  dining  rooms  of  any 
of  what  David  called  the  "  nabobs' "  houses.  By 
the  middle  or  latter  part  of  October  Homeville 
was  deserted  of  its  visitors  and  as  many  of  that 


272  DAVID  HARUM. 

class  of  its  regular  population  as  had  the  means 
to  go  with  and  a  place  to  go  to. 

It  was  under  somewhat  different  auspices  that 
John  entered  upon  the  second  winter  of  his  so 
journ.  It  has  been  made  plain  that  his  relations 
with  his  employer  and  the  kind  and  lovable  Polly 
were  on  a  satisfactory  and  permanent  footing. 

"  I'm  dum'd,"  said  David  to  Dick  Larrabee, 
"  if  it  hain't  got  putty  near  to  the  p'int  when  if 
I  want  to  git  anythin'  out  o'  the  common  run  out 
o'  Polly,  I'll  have  to  ask  John  to  fix  it  fer  me. 
She's  like  a  cow  with  a  calf/'  he  declared. 

"  David  sets  all  the  store  in  the  world  by 
him,"  stated  Mrs.  Bixbee  to  a  friend,  "  though  he 
don't  jes'  let  on  to — not  in  so  many  words.  He's 
got  a  kind  of  a  notion  that  his  little  boy,  if  he'd 
lived,  would  'a'  ben  like  him  some  ways.  I  never 
seen  the  child,"  she  added,  with  an  expression 
which  made  her  visitor  smile,  "  but  as  near  's  I 
c'n  make  out  f'm  Dave's  tell,  he  must  'a'  ben  red 
headed.  Didn't  you  know  't  he'd  ever  ben  mar 
ried?  Wa'al,  he  was  fer  a  few  years,  though  it's 
the  one  thing — wa'al,  I  don't  mean  exac'ly  that — 
it's  one  o'  the  things  he  don't  have  much  to  say 
about.  But  once  in  a  while  he'll  talk  about  the 
boy,  what  he'd  be  now  if  he'd  lived,  an'  so  on; 
an'  he's  the  greatest  hand  fer  childern — everlast- 
in'ly  pickin'  on  'em  up  when  he's  ridin'  and  such 
as  that — an'  I  seen  him  once  when  we  was  trav- 
elin'  on  the  cars  go  an'  take  a  squawlin'  baby 
away  f'm  it's  mother,  who  looked  ready  to  drop, 
an'  lay  it  across  that  big  chest  of  his,  an'  the  little 
thing  never  gave  a  whimper  after  he  got  it  into 
his  arms — jest  went  right  off  to  sleep.  No," 
said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "  I  never  had  no  childern,  an' 
I  don't  know  but  what  I  was  glad  of  it  at  the 


DAVID   HARUM.  273 

time;  Jim  Bixbee  was  about  as  much  baby  as  I 
thought  I  could  manage,  but  new- 
There  was  some  reason  for  not  concluding 
the  sentence,  and  so  we  do  not  know  what  was 
in  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  year  that  had  passed  had  seemed  a  very 
long  one  to  John,  but  as  the  months  came  and 
went  he  had  in  a  measure  adjusted  himself  to  the 
change  in  his  fortunes  and  environment;  and  so 
as  time  went  on  the  poignancy  of  his  sorrow  and 
regret  diminished,  as  it  does  with  all  of  us.  Yet 
the  sight  of  a  gray-haired  man  still  brought  a 
pang  to  his  heart,  and  there  were  times  of  yearn 
ing  longing  to  recall  every  line  of  the  face, 
every  detail  of  the  dress,  the  voice,  the  words,  of 
the  girl  who  had  been  so  dear  to  him,  and  who 
had  gone  out  of  his  life  as  irrevocably,  it  seemed 
to  him,  as  if  by  death  itself.  It  may  be  strange, 
but  it  is  true  that  for  a  very  long  time  it  never  oc 
curred  to  him  that  he  might  communicate  with 
her  by  mailing  a  letter  to  her  New  York  address 
to  be  forwarded,  and  when  the  thought  came  to 
him  the  impulse  to  act  upon  it  was  very  strong, 
but  he  did  not  do  so.  Perhaps  he  would  have 
written  had  he  been  less  in  love  with  her,  but 
also  there  was  mingled  with  that  sentiment  some 
thing  of  bitterness  which,  though  he  could  not 
quite  explain  or  justify  it,  did  exist.  Then,  too, 
he  said  to  himself,  "  Of  what  avail  would  it  be? 
Only  to  keep  alive  a  longing  for  the  impossible." 
No,  he  would  forget  it  all.  Men  had  died  and 
worms  had  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love.  Many 
274 


DAVID   HARUM.  2/5 

men  lived  all  their  lives  without  it  and  got  on 
very  well  too,  he  was  aware.  Perhaps  some  day, 
when  he  had  become  thoroughly  affiliated  and 
localized,  he  would  wed  a  village  maiden,  and 
rear  a  Freeland  County  brood.  Our  friend,  as 
may  be  seen,  had  a  pretty  healthy  mind,  and  we 
need  not  sympathize  with  him  to  the  disturbance 
of  our  own  peace. 

Books  accumulated  in  the  best  bedroom. 
John's  expenses  were  small,  and  there  was  very 
little  temptation,  or  indeed  opportunity,  for  spend 
ing.  At  the  time  of  his  taking  possession  of  his 
quarters  in  David's  house  he  had  raised  the  ques 
tion  of  his  contribution  to  the  household  ex 
penses,  but  Mr.  Harum  had  declined  to  discuss 
the  matter  at  all  and  referred  him  to  Mrs.  Bixbee, 
with  whom  he  compromised  on  a  weekly  sum 
which  appeared  to  him  absurdly  small,  but  which 
she  protested  she  was  ashamed  to  accept.  After 
a  while  a  small  upright  piano  made  its  appear 
ance,  with  Aunt  Polly's  approval. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  said.  "You  needn't 
to  hev  ast  me.  I'd  like  to  hev  you  anyway.  I 
like  music  ever  so  much,  an'  so  does  David, 
though  I  guess  it  would  floor  him  to  try  an' 
raise  a  tune.  I  used  to  sing  quite  a  little  when  I 
was  younger,  an'  I  gen'ally  help  at  church  an* 
prayer  meetin'  now.  Why,  cert'nly.  Why  not? 
When  would  you  play  if  it  wa'n't  in  the  evenin'? 
David  sleeps  over  the  wing.  Do  you  hear  him 
snore?" 

"  Hardly  ever,"  replied  John,  smiling.  "  That 
is  to  say,  not  very  much — just  enough  sometimes 
to  know  that  he  is  asleep." 

"Wa'al,"  she  said  decidedly,  "if  he's  fur 
enough  off  so  't  you  can't  hear  him,  I  guess  he 


276 


DAVID    HARUM. 


won't  hear  you  much,  an'  he  sure  won't  hear  you 
after  he  gits  to  sleep." 

So  the  piano  came,  and  was  a  great  comfort 
and  resource.  Indeed,  before  long  it  became  the 
regular  order  of  things  for  David  and  his  sister 
to  spend  an  hour  or  so  on  Sunday  evenings  lis 
tening  to  his  music  and  their  own  as  well — that 
is,  the  music  of  their  choice — which  latter  was 
mostly  to  be  found  in  "  Carmina  Sacra "  and 
"Moody  and  Sankey";  and  Aunt  Polly's  heart 
was  glad  indeed  when  she  and  John  together 
made  concord  of  sweet  sounds  in  some  familiar 
hymn  tune,  to  the  great  edification  of  Mr.  Ha- 
rum,  whose  admiration  was  unbounded. 

"  Did  I  tell  you,"  said  David  to  Dick  Larra- 
bee,  "  what  happened  the  last  time  me  an'  John 
went  ridin'  together?  " 

"  Not's  I  remember  on,"  replied  Dick. 

"  Wa'al,  we've  rode  together  quite  a  consid'- 
able/'  said  Mr.  Harum,  "  but  I  hadn't  never  said 
anythin'  to  him  about  takin'  a  turn  at  the  lines. 
This  day  we'd  got  a  piece  out  into  the  country 
an'  I  had  the  brown  colts.  I  says  to  him,  *  Ever 
do  any  drivin'?  " 

" '  More  or  less,'  he  says. 

"  '  Like  to  take  the  lines  fer  a  spell? '  I  says. 

"  '  Yes/  he  says,  lookin'  kind  o'  pleased,  '  if 
you  ain't  afraid  to  trust  me  with  'em/  he  says. 

"  '  Wa'al,  I'll  be  here/  I  says,  an'  handed  'em 
over.  Wa'al,  sir,  I  see  jest  by  the  way  he  took 
holt  on  'em  it  wa'n't  the  fust  time,  an'  we  went 
along  to  where  the  road  turns  in  through  a  piece 
of  woods,  an'  the  track  is  narrer,  an'  we  run  slap 
onto  one  o'  them  dum'd  road-engines  that  had 
got  wee-wawed  putty  near  square  across  the 


DAVID   HARUM.  277 

track.  Now  I  tell  ye,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  "  them 
hosses  didn't  like  it  fer  a  cent,  an'  tell  the  truth 
I  didn't  like  it  no  better.  We  couldn't  go  ahead 
fer  we  couldn't  git  by  the  cussed  thing,  an'  the 
hosses  was  'par'ntly  tryin'  to  git  back  under 

the  buggy,  an',  scat  my  !  if  he  didn't 

straighten  'em  out  an'  back  'em  'round  in  that 
narrer  road,  an'  hardly  scraped  a  wheel.  Yes, 
sir,"  declared  Mr.  Harum,  "  I  couldn't  'a'  done 
it  slicker  myself,  an'  I  don't  know  nobody  that 
could." 

"  Guess  you  must  'a'  felt  a  little  ticklish  your 
self,"  said  Dick  sympathetically,  laughing  as 
usual. 

"Wa'al,  you  better  believe,"  declared  the 
other.  "  The'  was  'bout  half  a  minute  when  I'd 
have  sold  out  mighty  cheap,  an'  took  a  promise 
fer  the  money.  He's  welcome  to  drive  any  team 
in  my  barn,"  said  David,  feeling — in  which  view 
Mr.  Larrabee  shared — that  encomium  was  pretty 
well  exhausted  in  that  assertion. 

"  I  don't  believe,"  said  Mr.  Harum  after  a  mo 
ment,  in  which  he  and  his  companion  reflected 
upon  the  gravity  of  his  last  declaration,  "  that 
the's  any  dum  thing  that  feller  can't  do.  The  last 
thing  's  a  piany.  He's  got  a  little  one  that  stands 
up  on  it's  hind  legs  in  his  room,  an'  he  c'n  play 
it  with  both  hands  'thout  lookin'  on.  Yes,  sir, 
we  have  reg'lar  concerts  at  my  house  ev'ry  Sun 
day  night,  admission  free,  an'  childern  half  price, 
an',"  said  David,  "  you'd  ought  to  hear  him  an' 
Polly  sing,  an' — he,  he,  he!  you'd  ought  to  see 
her  singin' — tickleder  'n  a  little  dog  with  a  nose 
gay  tied  to  his  tail." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

OUR  friend's  acquaintance  with  the  rector  of 
St.  James's  church  had  grown  into  something 
like  friendship,  and  the  two  men  were  quite  often 
together  in  the  evening.  John  went  sometimes 
to  Mr.  Euston's  house,  and  not  unfrequently  the 
latter  would  spend  an  hour  in  John's  room  over 
a  cigar  and  a  chat.  On  one  of  the  latter  occa 
sions,  late  in  the  autumn,  Mr.  Euston  went  to  the 
piano  after  sitting  a  few  minutes  and  looked  over 
some  of  the  music,  among  which  were  two  or 
three  hymnals.  "  You  are  musical,"  he  said. 

"  In  a  modest  way,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  it,"  said  the  clergyman, 
"  but  have  little  knowledge  of  it.  I  wish  I  had 
more,"  he  added  in  a  tone  of  so  much  regret  as 
to  cause  his  hearer  to  look  curiously  at  him. 
"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  I  knew  more — or  less. 
It's  the  bane  of  my  existence,"  declared  the  rec 
tor  with  a  half  laugh.  John  looked  inquiringly  at 
him,  but  did  not  respond. 

"  I  mean  the  music — so  called — at  St. 
James's,"  said  Mr.  Euston.  "  I  don't  wonder 
you  smile,"  he  remarked;  "but  it's  not  a  matter 
for  smiling  with  me." 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  John. 

"  No,  you  need  not,"  returned  the  other,  "  but 
really Well,  there  are  a  good  many  unpleas- 

27* 


DAVID   HARUM.  279 

ant  and  disheartening  experiences  in  a  clergy 
man's  life,  and  I  can,  I  hope,  face  and  endure 
most  of  them  with  patience,  but  the  musical  part 
of  my  service  is  a  never-ending  source  of  anxiety, 
perplexity,  and  annoyance.  I  think,"  said  Mr. 
Euston,  "  that  I  expend  more  nerve  tissue  upon 
that  branch  of  my  responsibilities  than  upon  all 
the  rest  of  my  work.  You  see  we  can  not  afford 
to  pay  any  of  the  singers,  and  indeed  my  people 
— some  of  them,  at  least — think  fifty  dollars  is  a 
great  sum  for  poor  little. Miss  Knapp,  the  ©rgan- 
ist.  The  rest  are  volunteers,  or  rather,  I  should 
say,  have  been  pressed  into  the  service.  We 
are  supposed  to  have  two  sopranos  and  two 
altos;  but  in  effect  it  happens  sometimes  that 
neither  of  a  pair  will  appear,  each  expecting 
the  other  to  be  on  duty.  The  tenor,  Mr.  Hub- 
ber,  who  is  an  elderly  man  without  any  voice 
to  speak  of,  but  a  very  devout  and  faithful 
churchman,  is  to  be  depended  upon  to  the  extent 
of  his  abilities;  but  Mr.  Little,  the  bass — well," 
observed  Mr.  Euston,  "  the  less  said  about  him 
the  better." 

"How  about  the  organist?"  said  John.  "I 
think  she  does  very  well,  doesn't  she?" 

"  Miss  Knapp  is  the  one  redeeming  feature," 
replied  the  rector,  "  but  she  has  not  much  cour 
age  to  interfere.  Hubber  is  nominally  the  leader, 
but  he  knows  little  of  music."  Mr.  Euston  gave 
a  sorry  little  laugh.  "  It's  trying  enough,"  he 
said,  "  one  Sunday  with  another,  but  on  Christ 
mas  and  Easter,  when  my  people  make  an  un 
usual  effort,  and  attempt  the  impossible,  it  is 
something  deplorable." 

John  could  not  forbear  a  little  laugh.  "  I 
should  think  it  must  be  pretty  trying,"  he  said. 


280  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  It  is  simply  corroding,"  declared  Mr. 
Euston. 

They  sat  for  a  while  smoking  in  silence,  the 
contemplation  of  his  woes  having  apparently 
driven  other  topics  from  the  mind  of  the  har 
assed  clergyman.  At  last  he  said,  turning  to 
our  friend: 

"  I  have  heard  your  voice  in  church." 

"Yes?" 

"  And  I  noticed  that  you  sang  not  only  the 
hymns  but  the  chants,  and  in  a  way  to  suggest 
the  idea  that  you  have  had  experience  and  train 
ing.  I  did  not  come  here  for  the  purpose,"  said 
Mr.  Euston,  after  waiting  a  moment  for  John 
to  speak,  "  though  I  confess  the  idea  has  oc 
curred  to  me  before,  but  it  was  suggested  again 
by  the  sight  of  your  piano  and  music.  I  know 
that  it  is  asking  a  great  deal,"  he  continued,  "  but 
do  you  think  you  could  undertake,  for  a  while 
at  least,  to  help  such  a  lame  dog  as  I  am  over 
the  stile?  You  have  no  idea,"  said  the  rector  ear 
nestly,  "  what  a  service  you  would  be  doing  not 
only  to  me,  but  to  my  people  and  the  church." 

John  pulled  thoughtfully  at  his  mustache  for 
a  moment,  while  Mr.  Euston  watched  his  face. 
"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  at  last  in  a  doubtful 
tone.  "  I  am  afraid  you  are  taking  too  much  for 
granted — I  don't  mean  as  to  my  good  will,  but 
as  to  my  ability  to  be  of  service,  for  I  suppose 
you  mean  that  I  should  help  in  drilling  your 
choir." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Euston.  "  I  suppose  it 
would  be  too  much  to  ask  you  to  sing  as  well." 

"  I  have  had  no  experience  in  the  way  of  lead 
ing  or  directing,"  replied  John,  ignoring  the  sug 
gestion,  "  though  I  have  sung  in  church  more 


DAVID   HARUM.  28 1 

or  less,  and  am  familiar  with  the  service,  but  even 
admitting  my  ability  to  be  of  use,  shouldn't  you 
be  afraid  that  my  interposing  might  make  more 
trouble  than  it  would  help?  Wouldn't  your  choir 
resent  it?  Such  people  are  sometimes  jealous, 
you  know." 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes,"  sighed  the  rector.  "  But," 
he  added,  "  I  think  I  can  guarantee  that  there 
will  be  no  unpleasant  feeling  either  toward  you 
or  about  you.  Your  being  from  New  York  will 
give  you  a  certain  prestige,  and  their  curiosity 
and  the  element  of  novelty  will  make  the  begin 
ning  easy." 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door  and  Mr. 
Harum  appeared,  but,  seeing  a  visitor,  was  for 
withdrawing. 

"  Don't  go,"  said  John.  "  Come  in.  Of 
course  you  know  Mr.  Euston." 

"  Glad  to  see  ye,"  said  David,  advancing  and 
shaking  hands.  "  You  folks  talkin'  bus'nis?"  he 
asked  before  sitting  down. 

"  I  am  trying  to  persuade  Mr.  Lenox  to  do 
me  a  great  favor,"  said  Mr.  Euston. 

"  Well,  I  guess  he  won't  want  such  an  awful 
sight  o'  persuadin',"  said  David,  taking  a  chair, 
"  if  he's  able  to  do  it.  What  does  he  want  of 
ye?"  he  asked,  turning  to  John.  Mr.  Euston 
explained,  and  our  friend  gave  his  reasons  for 
hesitating — all  but  the  chief  one,  which  was  that 
he  was  reluctant  to  commit  himself  to  an  under 
taking  which  he  apprehended  would  be  not  only 
laborious  but  disagreeable. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  "  as  fur  's  the  bus'nis 
itself  's  concerned,  the  hull  thing's  all  nix-cum- 
rouse  to  me;  but  as  fur  's  gettin'  folks  to  come 
an'  sing,  you  c'n  git  a  barn  full,  an'  take  your 


2g2  DAVID   HARUM. 

pick;  an'  a  feller  that  c'n  git  a  pair  of  bosses  an' 
a  buggy  out  of  a  tight  fix  the  way  you  done 
a  while  ago  ought  to  be  able  to  break  in  a  little 
team  of  half  a  dozen  women  or  so." 

"  Well,"  said  John,  laughing,  "  you  could  have 
done  what  I  was  lucky  enough  to  do  with  the 
horses,  but " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  David  broke  in,  scratching  his 
cheek,  "  I  guess  you  got  me  that  time." 

Mr.  Euston  perceived  that  for  some  reason 
he  had  an  ally  and  advocate  in  Mr.  Harum.  He 
rose  and  said  good-night,  and  John  escorted  him 
downstairs  to  the  door.  "  Pray  think  of  it  as 
favorably  as  you  can,"  he  said,  as  they  shook 
hands  at  parting. 

"  Putty  nice  kind  of  a  man,"  remarked  David 
when  John  came  back;  "putty  nice  kind  of  a 
man.  T.out  the  only  'quaintance  you've  made 
of  his  kind,  ain't  he?  Wa'al,  he's  all  right  fur  's 
he  goes.  Comes  of  good  stock,  I'm  told,  an' 
looks  it.  Runs  a  good  deal  to  emptins  in  his 
preachin'  though,  they  say.  How  do  you  find 
him?" 

"  I  think  I  enjoy  his  conversation  more  than 
his  sermons,"  admitted  John  with  a  smile. 

"  Less  of  it  at  times,  ain't  the'?"  suggested 
David.  "  I  may  have  told  ye,"  he  continued, 
"  that  I  wa'n't  a  very  reg'lar  churchgoer,  but 
I've  ben  more  or  less  in  my  time,  an'  when  I  did 
listen  to  the  sermon  all  through,  it  gen'ally 
seemed  to  me  that  if  the  preacher  'd  put  all  the' 
really  was  in  it  together  he  wouldn't  need  to  have 
took  only  'bout  quarter  the  time;  but  what  with 
scorin'  fer  a  start,  an'  laggin'  on  the  back  stretch, 
an'  ev'ry  now  an'  then  breakin'  to  a  stan'still,  I 
gen'ally  wanted  to  come  down  out  o'  the  stand  be- 


DAVID   HARUM.  283. 

fore  the  race  was  over.  The's  a  good  many  fast 
quarter  bosses,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum,  "  but 
them  that  c'n  keep  it  up  fer  a  full  mile  is  source. 
What  you  gotn'  to  do  about  the  music  bus'nis,  or 
hain't  ye  made  up  your  mind  yet?"  he  asked, 
changing  the  subject. 

"  I  like  Mr.  Euston,"  said  John,  "  and  he 
seems  very  much  in  earnest  about  this  matter; 
but  I  am  not  sure,"  he  added  thoughtfully,  "  that 
I  can  do  what  he  wants,  and  I  must  say  that  I 
am  very  reluctant  to  undertake  it;  still,  I  don't 
know  but  that  I  ought  to  make  the  trial,"  and  he 
looked  up  at  David. 

"  I  guess  I  would  if  I  was  you,"  said  the  latter. 
"  It  can't  do  ye  no  harm,  an'  it  may  do  ye  some 
good.  The  fact  is,"  he  continued,  "  that  you  ain't 
out  o'  danger  of  runnin'  in  a  rut.  It  would  do 
you  good  mebbe  to  git  more  acquainted,  an'  meb- 
be  this'll  be  the  start  on't." 

"  With  a  little  team  of  half  a  dozen  women, 
as  you  called  them,"  said  John.  "  Mr.  Euston 
has  offered  to  introduce  me  to  any  one  I  cared  to 
know." 

"  I  didn't  mean  the  singin'  folks,"  responded 
Mr., Harum,  "  I  meant  the  church  folks  in  gen'- 
ral,  an'  it'll  come  'round  in  a  natnr'l  sort  of  way 
— not  like  bein'  took  'round  by  Mr.  Euston  as 
if  you'd  ast  him  to.  You  can't  git  along — you 
may,  an'  have  fer  a  spell,  but  not  alwus — with  no 
body  to  visit  with  but  me  an'  Polly  an'  Dick,  an' 
so  on,  an'  once  in  a  while  with  the  parson ;  you  ben 
used  to  somethin'  difFrent,  an'  while  I  ain't  sayin' 
that  Homeville  soci'ty,  pertic'lerly  in  the  winter, 
's  the  finest  in  the  land,  or  that  me  an'  Polly  ain't 
all  right  in  our  way,  you  want  a  change  o'  feed 
once  in  a  while,  or  you  may  git  the  colic.  Now," 


284 


DAVID   HARUM. 


proceeded  the  speaker,  "  if  this  singin'  bus'nis 
don't  do  more'n  to  give  ye  somethin'  new  to 
think  about,  an'  take  up  an  evenin'  now  an'  then, 
even  if  it  bothers  ye  some,  I  think  mebbe  it'll 
be  a  good  thing  fer  ye.  They  say  a  reasonable 
amount  o'  fleas  is  good  fer  a  dog — keeps  him 
from  broodin'  over  be-in'  a  dog,  mebbe,''  sug 
gested  David. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  John.  "  In 
deed,  I  don't  doubt  that  you  are  right,  and  I  will 
take  your  advice." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  David  a  minute  or  two 
later  on,  holding  out  the  glass  while  John  poured, 
"  jest  a  wisdom  toothful.  I  don't  set  up  to  be  no 
Sol'mon,  an'  if  you  ever  find  out  how  I'm  bettin 
on  a  race  jest  '  copper'  me  an'  you  c'n  wear  dr- 
monds,  but  I  know  when  a  hoss  has  stood  too 
long  in  the  barn  as  soon  as  the  next  man." 

It  is  possible  that  even  Mr.  Euston  did  not 
fully  appreciate  the  difficulties  of  the  task  which 
he  persuaded  our  friend  John  to  undertake;  and 
it  is  certain  that  had  the  latter  known  all  that 
they  were  to  be  he  would  have  hardened  his  heart 
against  both  the  pleadings  of  the  rector  and  the 
advice  of  David.  His  efforts  were  welcomed  and 
seconded  by  Mr.  Hubber  the  tenor,  and  Miss 
Knapp  the  organist,  and  there  was  some  earnest 
ness  displayed  at  first  by  the  ladies  of  the  choir; 
but  Mr.  Little,  the  bass,  proved  a  hopeless  case, 
and  John,  wholly  against  his  intentions,  and  his 
inclinations  as  well,  had  eventually  to  take  over 
the  basso's  duty  altogether,  as  being  the  easiest 
wav — in  fact,  the  only  way — to  save  his  efforts 
from  downright  failure. 

Without  going  in  detail  into  the  trials  and 
tribulations  incident  to  the  bringing  of  the  mu- 


DAVID   HARUM. 


285 


sical  part  of  the  service  at  Mr.  Euston's  church 
up  to  a  respectable  if  not  a  high  standard,  it  may 
be  said  that  with  unremitting  pains  this  end  was 
accomplished,  to  the  boundless  relief  and  grati 
tude  of  that  worthy  gentleman,  and  to  a  good 
degree  of  the  members  of  his  congregation. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

ON  a  tine  Sunday  in  summer  alter  the  close  of 
the  service  the  exit  of  the  congregation  of  St. 
James's  church  presents  an  animated  and  inspir 
ing  spectacle.  A  good  many  well-dressed  ladies 
of  various  ages,  and  not  quite  so  many  well- 
dressed  men.  mostly  (as  David  would  have  put  it) 
"  runnin'  a  little  younger."  come  from  out  the 
sacred  edifice  with  an  expression  of  relief  easily 
changeable  to  something  leaver.  A  few  drive 
away  in  handsome  equipages,  but  most  prefer  to 
walk,  and  there  is  usually  a  good  deal  of  smiling 
talk  in  groups  hefore  parting,  in  which  Mr.  Kus- 
ton  likes  to  join.  He  leaves  matters  in  the  vestry 
to  the  care  of  old  I'.arlow.  the  sexton,  and  makes, 
if  one  may  be  permitted  the  expression.  "  a  quick 

change." 

Things  had  come  about  very  much  as  David 
had  desired  and  anticipated,  and  our  friend  had 
met  quite  a  number  of  the  "  summer  people," 
having  been  waylaid  at  times  by  the  rector — in 
whose  good  graces  he  stood  so  high  that  he 
might  have  sung  anything  short  of  a  comic  song 
during  the  offertory-  -and  presented  willy-nilly. 
On  this  particular  Sunday  he  had  lingered  a 
while  in  the  galVrv  afier  service  over  some  mat 
ter  connected  with  the  music,  and  when  he  came 
vnit  of  the  church  most  of  the  people  had  made 


DAVID   HARUM. 


28?- 


their  way  down  the  front  stops  and  up  the  street; 

but  standing  near  the  gate  was  a  group  of  three 
— the  rector  and  two  young  women  whom  John 
had  seen  the  previous  summer,  and  now  recog 
nized  as  the  Misses  Yerjoos.  He  raised  his  hat 
as  lie  was  passing  the  group,  when  Mr.  Kus- 
ton  detained  him:  "  1  want  to  present  you  to  the 
Misses  Yerjoos."  A  tall  girl,  dressed  in  some 
blaek  material  which  gave  John  the  impression 
of  lace,  recogni/ed  his  salutation  with  a  slight 
bow  and  a  rather  indifferent  survey  from  a  pair 
of  very  somber  dark  eyes,  while  her  sister,  in 
light  colors,  gave  him  a  smiling  glance  from  a 
pair  of  very  blue  ones.  and.  rather  to  his  surprise, 
put  out  her  hand  with  the  usual  declaration  of 
pleasure,  happiness,  or  what  not. 

"  We  were  just  speaking  of  the  singing,"  said 
the  rector.  "  and  1  was  saying  that  it  was  all  your 
doing." 

"  You  really  have  done  wonders,"  conde 
scended  she  of  the  somber  eyes.  "  We  have  only 
been  hero  a  day  or  two  and"  this  is  the  first  time 
we  have  been  at  church." 

The  party  moved  out  of  the  gate  and  up 
the  street,  the  rector  leading  with  Miss  Ver- 
joos,  followed  by  our  friend  and  the  younger 
sister. 

"  Indeed  you  have."  said  the  latter,  seconding 
her  sister's  remark.  "  I  don't  believe  even  your 
self  can  quite  reali/e  what  the  difference  is.  My! 
it  is  very  nice  for  the  rest  of  us.  but  it  must  be  a 
perfect  killing  bore  for  you." 

"  I  have  found  it  rather  trying  at  times,"  said 
John ;  "  but  now — you  are  so  kind — it  is  begin 
ning  to  appear  to  me  as  the  most  delightful  of 
pursuits." 


288  DAVID   HARUM. 

"  Very  pretty,"  remarked  Miss  Clara.  "  Do 
you  say  a  good  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing?  " 

"  I  am  rather  out  of  practice,"  replied  John. 
"  I  haven't  had  muchfopportunity  for  some  time." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  feel  discouraged," 
she  returned.  "  A  good  method  is  everything, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  you  might  soon  be  in  form 
again." 

"  Thanks  for  your  encouragement,"  said  John, 
smiling.  "  I  was  beginning  to  feel  quite  low  in 
my  mind  about  it."  She  laughed  a  little. 

"  I  heard  quite  a  good  deal  about  you  last 
year  from  a  very  good  friend  of  yours,"  said  Miss 
Clara  after  a  pause.  » 

John  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  Mrs.  Bixbee,"  she  said.  "  Isn't  she  an  old 
dear?" 

"  I  have  reason  to  think  so,  with  all  my 
heart,"  said  John  stoutly. 

"  She  talked  a  lot  about  you  to  me,"  said  Miss 
Clara. 

"Yes?" 

"  Yes,  and  if  your  ears  did  not  burn  you  have 
no  sense  of  gratitude.  Isn't  Mr.  Harum  funny?  " 

"  I  have  sometimes  suspected  it,"  said  John, 
laughing.  "  He  once  told  me  rather  an  amusing 
thing  about  a  young  woman's  running  off  with 
one  of  his  horses." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  that?  Really?  I  wonder 
what  you  must  have  thought  of  me?  " 

"  Something  of  what  Mr.  Harum  did,  I 
fancy,"  said  John. 

"  What  was  that?" 

"  Pardon  me,"  was  the  reply,  "  but  I  have 
been  snubbed  once  this  morning."  She  gave  a 
little  laugh. 


DAVID    HARUM.  289 

"  Mr.  Harum  and  I  are  great  '  neetups/  as  he 
says.  Is  'neetups'  a  nice  word?"  she  asked, 
looking  at  her  companion. 

"  I  should  think  so  if  I  were  in  Mr.  Harum's 
place,"  said  John.^  "It  means  'cronies,'  I  be 
lieve,  in  his  dictionary." 

They  had  come  to  where  Freeland  Street  ter 
minates  in  the  Lake  Road,  which  follows  the  bor 
der  of  the  lake  to  the  north  and  winds  around 
the  foot  of  it  to  the  south  and  west. 

"  Why!  "  exclaimed  Miss  Clara,  "  there  comes 
David.  I  haven't  seen  him  this  summer." 

They  halted  and  David  drew  up,  winding  the 
reins  about  the  whipstock  and  pulling  off  his 
buckskin  glove. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Harum?"  said  the 
girl,  putting  her  hand  in  his. 

"  How  air  ye,  Miss  Claricy?  Glad  to  see  ye 
agin,"  he  said.  "  I'm  settin'  up  a  little  ev'ry  day 
now,  an'  you  don't  look  as  if  you  was  off  your 
feed  much,  eh?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  laughing,  "  I'm  in  what 
you  call  pretty  fair  condition,  I  think." 

"  Wa'al,  I  reckon,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
smiling  face  with  the  frankest  admiration. 
"  Guess  you  come  out  a  little  finer  ev'ry  season, 
don't  ye?  Hard  work  to  keep  ye  out  o'  the  *  f ree 
fer-all'  class,  I  guess.  How's  all  the  folks?" 

"  Nicely,  thanks,"  she  replied. 

:'  That's  right,"  said  David. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Bixbee?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David  with  a  grin,  "  I  ben  a 
little  down  in  the  mouth  lately  'bout  Polly — 
seems  to  be  fallin'  away  some — don't  weigh  much 
more  'n  I  do,  I  guess ; "  but  Miss  Clara  only 
laughed  at  this  gloomy  report. 


290 


DAVID   HARUM. 


"  How  is  my  horse  Kirby?  "  she  asked. 

"  Wa'al,  the  ole  bag-o'-bones  is  breathin'  yet," 
said  David,  chuckling,  "  but  he's  putty  well  wore 
out — has  to  lean  up  agin  the  shed  to  whicker. 
Guess  I'll  have  to  sell  ye  another  putty  soon 
now.  Still,  what  the'  is  left  of  him  's  's  good  's 
ever  't  will  be,  an'  I'll  send  him  up  in  the  morn- 
in'."  He  looked  from  Miss  Clara  to  John,  whose 
salutation  he  had  acknowledged  with  the  briefest 
of  nods. 

"  How'd  you  ketch  him?  "  he  asked,  indicat 
ing  our  friend  with  a  motion  of  his  head.  "  Had 
to  go  after  him  with  a  four-quart  measure,  didn't 
ye?  or  did  he  let  ye  corner  him?  " 

"  Mr.  Euston  caught  him  for  me,"  she  said, 
laughing,  but  coloring  perceptibly,  while  John's 
face  grew  very  red.  "  I  think  I  will  run  on  and 
join  my  sister,  and  Mr.  Lenox  can  drive  home 
with  you.  Good  bye,  Mr.  Harum.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  have  Kirby  whenever  it  is  convenient. 
We  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  at  Lakelawn,"  she 
said  to  John  cordially,  "  whenever  you  can 
come;"  and  taking  her  prayer  book  and  hymnal 
from  him,  she  sped  away. 

"  Look  at  her  git  over  the  ground,"  said 
David,  turning  to  watch  her  while  John  got  into 
the  buggy.  "  Ain't  that  a  gait?  " 

"  She  is  a  charming  girl,"  said  John  as  old 
Jinny  started  off. 

"  She's  the  one  I  told  you  about  that  run  off 
with  my  hoss,"  remarked  David,  "  an'  I  alwus 
look  after  him  fer  her  in  the  winter." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  John.  "  She  was  laugh 
ing  about  it  to-day,  and  saying  that  you  and  she 
were  great  friends." 

"She    was,    was    she?"    said    David,    highly 


DAVID    HARUM.  29! 

pleased.  "  Yes,  sir,  that's  the  girl,  an',  scat  my 

!  if  I  was  thirty  years  younger  she  c'd  run 

off  with  me  jest  as  easy — an'  I  dunno  but  what 
she  could  anyway,"  he  added. 

"  Charming  girl,"  repeated  John  rather 
thoughtfully. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  "  I  don't  know  as  much 
about  girls  as  I  do  about  some  things;  my  ex 
perience  hain't  laid  much  in  that  line,  but  I 
wouldn't  like  to  take  a  contract  to  match  her  on 
any  limit.  I  guess,"  he  added  softly,  "  that  the 
consideration  in  that  deal  'd  have  to  be  '  love  an' 
affection.'  Git  up,  old  lady,"  he  exclaimed,  and 
drew  the  whip  along  old  Jinny's  back  like  a  ca 
ress.  The  mare  quickened  her  pace,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  they  drove  into  the  barn. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"WHERE  you  ben?"  asked  Mrs.  Bixbee  of 
her  brother  as  the  three  sat  at  the  one  o'clock 
dinner.  "  I  see  you  drivin'  off  somewheres." 

"  Ben  up  the  Lake  Road  to  'Lizer  Howe's," 
replied  David.  "  He's  got  a  hoss  't  I've  some 
notion  o'  buyin'." 

"  Ain't  the'  week-days  enough,"  she  asked, 
"  to  do  your  horse-tradin'  in  'ithout  breakin'  the 
Sabbath?  " 

David  threw  back  his  head  and  lowered  a 
stalk  of  the  last  asparagus  of  the  year  into  his 
mouth. 

"  Some  o'  the  best  deals  I  ever  made,"  he  said, 
"  was  made  on  a  Sunday.  Hain't  you  never 
heard  the  sayin',  '  The  better  the  day,  the  better 
the  deal'?" 

"Wa'al,"  declared  Mrs.  Bixbee,  "the'  can't 
be  no  blessin'  on  money  that's  made  in  that  way, 
an'  you'd  be  better  off  without  it." 

"  I  dunno,"  remarked  her  brother,  "  but 
Deakin  Perkins  might  ask  a  blessin'  on  a  hoss 
trade,  but  I  never  heard  of  it's  bein'  done,  an'  I 
don't  know  jest  how  the  deakin  'd  put  it;  it'd  be 
two  fer  the  deakin  an'  one  fer  the  other  feller, 
though,  somehow,  you  c'n  bet." 

"  Humph!  "  she  ejaculated.  "  I  guess  nobody 
ever  did;  an'  I  sh'd  think  you  had  money  enough 
292 


DAVID   HARUM. 


293 


an'  horses  enough  an'  time  enough  to  keep  out  o' 

that  bus'nis  on  Sunday,  anyhow." 

"Wa'al,  wa'al,"  said  David,  "  mebbe  I'll 
swear  off  before  long,  an'  anyway  the'  wa'n't  no 
blessin'  needed  on  this  trade,  fer  if  you'll  ask 
'Lizer  he'll  tell  ye  the'  wa'n't  none  made.  'Lizer 
's  o'  your  way  o'  thinkin'  on  the  subjict." 

;<  That's  to  his  credit,  anyway,"  she  asserted. 

"  Jes'  so,"  observed  her  brother;  "  I've  gen'- 
ally  noticed  that  folks  who  was  of  your  way  o' 
thinkin'  never  made  no  mistakes,  an'  'Lizer  's  a 
very  consistent  believer;"  whereupon  he  laughed 
in  a  way  to  arouse  both  Mrs.  Bixbee's  curiosity 
and  suspicion. 

"  I  don't  see  anythin'  in  that  to  laugh  at,"  she 
declared. 

"  He,  he,  he,  he! "  chuckled  David. 

"  Wa'al,  you  may  's  well  tell  it  one  time  's  an 
other.  That's  the  way,"  she  said,  turning  to 
John  with  a  smile  trembling  on  her  lips,  "  't  he 
picks  at  me  the  hull  time." 

"  I've  noticed  it,"  said  John.  "  It's  shame 
ful." 

"  I  do  it  hully  fer  her  good,"  asserted  David 
with  a  grin.  "  If  it  wa'n't  fer  me  she'd  git  in 
time  as  narrer  as  them  seven-day  Babtists  over 
to  Feeble — they  call  'em  the  '  narrer  Babtists.' 
You've  heard  on  'em,  hain't  you,  Polly?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  without  looking  up  from  her 
plate,  "  I  never  heard  on  'em,  an'  I  don't  much 
believe  you  ever  did  neither." 

"What!"  exclaimed  David.  "You  lived 
here  goin'  on  seventy  year  an'  never  heard  on 
'em?" 

"David  Harum!"  she  cried,  "I  ain't  within 
ten  year " 


294 


DAVID    HARUM. 


"  Hold  on,"  he  protested,  "  don't  throw  that 
teacup.  I  didn't  say  you  was,  I  only  said  you 
was  goin*  on — an'  about  them  people  over  to 
Pee^le,  they've  got  the  name  of  the  '  narrer  Bab- 
tists '  because  they're  so  narrer  in  their  views 
that  fourteen  on  'em  c'n  sit,  side  an'  side,  in  a 
buggy."  This  astonishing  statement  elicited  a 
laugh  even  from  Aunt  Polly,  but  presently  she 
said: 

"  Wa'al,  I'm  glad  you  found  one  man  that 
would  stan'  you  off  on  Sunday." 

"  Yes'm,"  said  her  brother,  "  'Lizer  's  jest 
your  kind.  I  knew  't  he'd  hurt  his  foot,  an'  prob'- 
ly  couldn't  go  to  meetin',  an'  sure  enough,  he  was 
settin'  on  the  stoop,  an'  I  drove  in  an'  pulled  up 
in  the  lane  alongside.  We  said  good  mornin'  an' 
all  that,  an'  I  ast  after  the  folks  an'  how  his  foot 
was  gettin'  'long,  an'  so  on,  an'  fin'ly  I  says,  '  I 
see  your  boy  drivin'  a  hoss  the  other  day  that 
looked  a  little — f'm  the  middle  o'  the  road — as 
if  he  might  match  one  I've  got,  an'  I  thought 
I'd  drive  up  this  mornin'  an'  see  if  we  couldn't 
git  up  a  dicker.'  Wa'al,  he  give  a  kind  of 
a  hitch  in  his  chair  as  if  his  foot  hurt  him,  an' 
then  he  says,  '  I  guess  I  can't  deal  with  ye  to 
day.  I  don't  never  do  no  bus'nis  on  Sunday,'  he 
says. 

"  '  I've  heard  you  was  putty  pertic'ler,'  I  says, 
'  but  I'm  putty  busy  jest  about  now,  an'  I  thought 
that  mebbe  once  in  a  way,  an'  seein'  that  you 
couldn't  go  to  meetin'  anyway,  an'  that  I've  come 
quite  a  ways  an'  don't  know  when  I  c'n  see  you 
agin,  an'  so  on,  that  mebbe  you'd  think,  under 
all  the  circumstances,  the'  wouldn't  be  no  great 
harm  in't — long  's  I  don't  pay  over  no  money, 
at  cetery,'  I  says. 


DAVID   HARUM.  295 

:  *  No/  he  says,  shakin'  his  head  in  a  sort  o' 
mournful  way,  '  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,  an'  I'm  sorry 
you've  took  all  that  trouble  fer  nuthin',  but  my 
conscience  won't  allow  me/  he  says,  *  to  do  no 
bus'nis  on  Sunday.' 

"  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  I  don't  ask  no  man  to  go 
agin  his  conscience,  but  it  wouldn't  be  no  very 
glarin'  transgression  on  your  part,  would  it,  if 
I  was  to  go  up  to  the  barn  all  alone  by  myself 
an'  look  at  the  hoss?'  I  c'd  see,"  continued  Mr. 
Harum,  "  that  his  face  kind  o'  brightened  up  at 
that,  but  he  took  his  time  to  answer.  '  Wa'al/ 
he  says  fin'ly,  '  I  don't  want  to  lay  down  no  law 
fer  you,  an'  if  you  don't  see  no  harm  in't,  I  guess 
the'  ain't  nuthin'  to  prevent  ye.'  So  I  got  down 
an'  started  fer  the  barn,  an' — he,  he,  he! — when 
I'd  got  about  a  rod  he  hollered  after  me,  '  He's 
in  the  end  stall/  he  says. 

"  Wa'al,"  the  narrator  proceeded,  "  I  looked 
the  critter  over  an'  made  up  my  mind  about  what 
he  was  wuth  to  me,  an'  went  back  an'  got  in, 
an'  drove  into  the  yard,  an'  turned  'round,  an' 
drew  up  agin  'longside  the  stoop.  'Lizer  looked 
up  at  me  in  an  askin'  kind  of  a  way,  but  he  didn't 
say  anythin'. 

"  '  I  s'pose/  I  says,  '  that  you  wouldn't  want 
me  to  say  anythin'  more  to  ye,  an'  I- may  's  well 
jog  along  back.' 

"  '  Wa'al/  he  says,  '  I  can't  very  well  help 
hearin'  ye,  kin  I,  if  you  got  anythin'  to  say? ' 

"  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  the  hoss  ain't  exac'ly  what 
I  expected  to  find,  nor  jes'  what  I'm  lookin' 
fer;  but  I  don't  say  I  wouldn't  'a'  made  a  deal 
with  ye  if  the  price  had  ben  right,  an'  it  hadn't 
ben  Sunday.'  I  reckon/'  said  David  with  a  wink 
at  John,  "  that  that  there  foot  o'  his'n  must  'a' 


DAVID    HARUM. 

give  him  an  extry  twinge  the  way  he  wriggled  in 
his  chair;  but  I  couldn't  break  his  lockjaw 
yit.  So  I  gathered  up  the  lines  an'  took  out  the 
whip,  an'  made  all  the  motions  to  go,  an'  then 
I  kind  o'  stopped  an'  says,  '  I  don't  want  you 
to  go  agin  your  princ'ples  nor  the  law  an'  gosp'l 
on  my  account,  but  the'  can't  be  no  harm  in 
s'posin'  a  case,  can  the'?'  No,  he  allowed 
that  s'posin'  wa'n't  jest  the  same  as  doin'. 
'  Wa'al/  says  I,  '  now  s'posin'  I'd  come  up 
here  yestidy  as  I  have  to-day,  an'  looked  your 
hoss  over,  an'  said  to  you,  "  What  price  do  you 
put  on  him?"  what  do  you  s'pose  you'd  V 
said?' 

"'Wa'al/  he  said,  '  puttin'  it  that  way,  I 
s'pose  I'd  'a'  said  one-seventy.' 

"  '  Yes/  I  says,  '  an'  then  agin,  if  I'd  said  that 
he  wa'n't  wuth  that  money  to  me,  not  bein'  jes' 
what  I  wanted — an'  so  he  ain't — but  that  I'd  give 
one-forty,  cash,  what  do  you  s'pose  you'd  'a' 
said?' 

"  '  Wa'al/  he  says,  givin'  a  hitch,  '  of  course 
I  don't  know  jes*  what  I  would  have  said,  but  I 
guess,'  he  says,  '  't  I'd  'a'  said  if  you'll  make  it  one- 
fifty  you  c'n  have  the  hoss.' 

"  '  Wa'al,  now/  I  says,  *  s'posin'  I  was  to  send 
Dick  Larrabee  up  here  in  the  mornin'  with  the 
money,  what  do  you  s'pose  you'd  do?' 

" '  I  s'pose  I'd  let  him  go/  says  'Lizer. 

All  right/  I  says,  an'  off  I  put.  That  con 
'Lizer's,"  remarked  Mr.  Harum  in 
conclusion,  "  is  wuth  its  weight  in  gold,  jest 
about." 

"David  Harum,"  declared  Aunt  Polly,  "  you'd 
ort  to  be  'shamed  o'  yourself." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David  with  an  air  of  meekness, 


DAVID   HARUM. 


297-. 


"  if  I've  done  anythin'  I'm  sorry  for,  I'm  willin' 

to  be  forgi'n.     Now,  s'posin' " 

"  I've  heard  enough  'bout  s'posin'  fer  one 
day,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee  decisively,  "  unless  it's 
s'posin'  you  finish  your  dinner  so's't  Sairy  c'n  git 
through  her  work  sometime." 


20 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

AFTER  dinner  John  went  to  his  room  and 
David  and  his  sister  seated  themselves  on  the 
"  verandy."  Mr.  Harum  lighted  a  cigar  and  en 
joyed  his  tobacco  for  a  time  in  silence,  while  Mrs. 
Bixbee  perused,  with  rather  perfunctory  dili 
gence,  the  columns  of  her  weekly  church  paper. 

"  I  seen  a  sight  fer  sore  eyes  this  mornin'," 
quoth  David  presently. 

"  What  was  that?  "  asked  Aunt  Polly,  looking 
up  over  her  glasses. 

"  Claricy  Verjoos  fer  one  part  on't,"  said 
David. 

"The  Verjooses  hev  come,  hev  they?  Wa'al, 
that's  good.  I  hope  she'll  come  up  an'  see  me," 

David  nodded.  "  An'  the  other  part  on't 
was,"  he  said,  "  she  an'  that  young  feller  of  our'n 
was  walkin'  together,  an'  a  putty  slick  pair  they 
made  too." 

"Ain't  she  purty?"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

11  They  don't  make  'em  no  puttier,"  affirmed 
David;  "an'  they  was  a  nice  pair.  I  couldn't 
help  thinkin',"  he  remarked,  "  what  a  nice  hitch 
up  they'd  make." 

"  Guess  the'  ain't  much  chance  o'  that,"  she 
observed. 

'  No,  I  guess  not  either,"  said  David. 

"  He  hain't  got  anythin'  to  speak  of,  I  s'pose, 
298 


DAVID   HARUM. 


299 


an'  though  I  reckon  she'll  hev  prop'ty  some  day, 
all  that  set  o'  folks  seems  to  marry  money,  an" 
some  one's  alwus  dyin'  an'  leavin'  some  on  'em 
some  more.  The'  ain't  nothin'  truer  in  the 
Bible,"  declared  Mrs.  Bixbee  with  conviction,  "  'n 
that  sayin'  thet  them  that  has  gits." 

"  That's  seemin'ly  about  the  way  it  runs  in 
g-en'ral,"  said  David. 

"  It  don't  seem  right,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  with 
her  eyes  on  her  brother's  face.  "  Now  there 
was  all  that  money  one  o'  Mis'  Elbert  Swayne's 
relations  left  her  last  year,  an'  Lucy  Scramm, 
that's  poorer  'n  poverty's  back  kitchin,  an'  the 
same  relation  to  him  that  Mis'  Swayne  was, 
only  got  a  thousan'  dollars,  an'  the  Swaynes 
rich  already.  Not  but  what  the  thousan'  was 
a  godsend  to  the  Scramms,  but  he  might  jest 
as  well  'a'  left  'em  comf'tibly  off  as  not,  'stid 
of  pilin'  more  onto  the  Swaynes  that  didn't 
need  it." 

"  Does  seem  kind  o'  tough,"  David  observed, 
leaning  forward  to  drop  his  cigar  ash  clear  of  the 
veranda  floor,  "  but  that's  the  way  things  goes, 
an'  I've  often  had  to  notice  that  a  man'll  some 
times  do  the  foolishist  thing  or  the  meanest  thing 
in  his  hull  life  after  he's  dead." 

"  You  never  told  me,"  said  Mrs.  Bixbee,  after 
a  minute  or  two,  in  which  she  appeared  to  be  fol 
lowing  up  a  train  of  reflection,  "  much  of  any- 
thin'  about  John's  matters.  Hain't  he  ever  told 
you  anythin'  more  'n  what  you've  told  me?  or 
don't  ye  want  me  to  know?  Didn't  his  father 
leave  anythin'?  " 

"  The'  was  a  little  money,"  replied  her  brother, 
blowing  out  a  cloud  of  smoke,  "  an'  a  lot  of  un 
likely  chances,  but  nothin'  to  live  on." 


DAVID    HARUM. 


"  An'  the'  wa'n't  nothin'  for  't  but  he  had  to 
come  up  here  ?  "  she  queried. 

"  He'd  'a'  had  to  work  on  a  salary  somewhere, 
I  reckon,"  was  the  reply.  "  The'  was  one  thing," 
added  David  thoughtfully  after  a  moment,  "that'll 
mebbe  come  to  somethin'  some  time,  but  it  may 
be  a  good  while  fust,  an'  don't  you  ever  let  on 
to  him  nor  nobody  else  't  I  ever  said  anythin' 
about  it." 

"  I  won't  open  my  head  to  a  livin'  soul,"  she 
declared.  "  What  was  it?  " 

"  Wa'al,  I  don't  know  's  I  ever  told  ye,"  he 
said,  "  but  a  good  many  years  ago  I  took  some 
little  hand  in  the  oil  bus'nis,  but  though  I  didn't 
git  in  as  deep  as  I  wish  now  't  I  had,  I've  alwus 
kept  up  a  kind  of  int'rist  in  what  goes  on  in  that 
line." 

"  No,  I  guess  you  never  told  me,"  she  said. 
"  Where  you  goin'?  "  as  he  got  out  of  his  chair. 

"  Goin'  to  git  my  cap,"  he  answered.  "  Dum 
the  dum  things!  I  don't  believe  die's  a  fly  in 
Freeland  County  that  hain't  danced  the  wild 
kachuky  on  my  head  sence  we  set  here.  Be  I 
much  specked?"  he  asked,  as  he  bent  his  bald 
poll  for  her  inspection. 

"  Oh,  go  'long!  "  she  cried,  as  she  gave  him  a 
laughing  push. 

"'Mongst  other  things,"  he  resumed,  when  he 
had  returned  to  his  chair  and  relighted  his  cigar, 
"  the'  was  a  piece  of  about  ten  or  twelve  hunderd 
acres  of  land  down  in  Pennsylvany  havin'  some 
coal  on  it,  he  told  me  he  understood,  but  all  the 
timber,  ten  inch  an'  over,  'd  ben  sold  off.  He 
told  me  that  his  father's  head  clerk  told  him  that 
the  old  gentleman  had  tried  fer  a  long  time  to 
dispose  of  it;  but  it  called  fer  too  much  to  de- 


DAVID   HARUM. 

velop  it,  I  guess;  't  any  rate  he  couldn't,  an* 
John's  got  it  to  pay  taxes  on." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  it  was  wuth  anythin'  to 
him  but  jest  a  bill  of  expense,"  observed  Mrs. 
Bixbee. 

1  'Tain't  now,"  said  David,  "  an'  mebbe  won't 
be  fer  a  good  while;  still,  it's  wuth  somethin',  an' 
I  advised  him  to  hold  onto  it  on  gen'ral  prin- 
c'ples.  I  don't  know  the  pertic'ler  prop'ty,  of 
course,"  he  continued,  "  but  I  do  know  somethin' 
of  that  section  of  country,  fer  I  done  a  little  pros- 
pectin'  'round  there  myself  once  on  a  time.  But 
it  wa'n't  in  the  oil  territory  them  days,  or  wa'n't 
known  to  be,  anyway." 

"  But  it's  eatin'  itself  up  with  taxes,  ain't  it?" 
objected  Mrs.  Bixbee. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  replied,  "  it's  free  an',  clear,  an' 
the  taxes  ain't  so  very  much — though  they  do 
stick  it  to  an  outside  owner  down  there — an'  the 
p'int  is  here:  I've  alwus  thought  they  didn't  drill 
deep  enough  in  that  section.  The'  was  some 
little  traces  of  oil  the  time  I  told  ye  of,  an'  I've 
heard  lately  that  the's  some  talk  of  a  move  to 
test  the  territory  agin,  an',  if  anythin'  was  to  be 
found,  the  young  feller's  prop'ty  might  be  wuth 
somethin',  but,"  he  added,  "  of  course  the'  ain't 
no  tellin'." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"WELL,"  said  Miss  Verjoos,  when  her  sister 
overtook  her,  Mr.  Euston  having  stopped  at  his 
own  gate,  "  you  and  your  latest  discovery  seemed 
to  be  getting  on  pretty  well  from  the  occasional 
sounds  which  came  to  my  ears.  What  is  he 
like?" 

"  He's  charming,"  declared  Miss  Clara. 

"  Indeed,"  remarked  her  sister,  lifting  her  eye 
brows.  "  You  seem  to  have  come  to  a  pretty 
broad  conclusion  in  a  very  short  period  of  time. 
4  Charming '  doesn't  leave  very  much  to  be  added 
on  longer  acquaintance,  does  it?" 

"  Oh,  yes  it  does,"  said  Miss  Clara,  laughing. 
"  There  are  all  degrees :  Charming,  very  charm 
ing,  most  charming,  and  perfectly  charming." 

"  To  be  sure,"  replied  the  other.  "  And  there 
is  the  descending  scale:  Perfectly  charming,  most 
charming,  very  charming,  charming,  very  pleas 
ant,  quite  nice,  and,  oh,  yes,  well  enough.  Of 
course  you  have  asked  him  to  call." 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  Miss  Clara. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  mamma " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  declared  the  girl  with  deci 
sion.  "  I  know  from  what  Mr.  Euston  said,  and 
I  know  from  the  little  talk  I  had  with  him  this 
morning,  from  his  manner  and — je  ne  sais  qitoi 
— that  he  will  be  a  welcome  addition  to  a  set  of 
302 


DAVID   HARUM.  303 

people  in  which  every  single  one  knows  just  what 
every  other  one  will  say  on  any  given  sub 
ject  and  on  any  occasion.  You  know  how 
it  is." 

"  Well,"  said  the  elder  sister,  smiling  and  half 
shutting  her  eyes  with  a  musing  look,  "  I  think 
myself  that  we  all  know  each  other  a  little  too 
well  to  make  our  affairs  very  exciting.  Let  us 
hope  the  new  man  will  be  all  you  anticipate,  and," 
she  added  with  a  little  laugh,  and  a  side  glance  at 
her  sister,  "  that  there  will  be  enough  of  him  to 
go  'round." 

It  hardly  needs  to  be  said  that  the  aristocracy 
of  Homeville  and  all  the  summer  visitors  and 
residents  devoted  their  time  to  getting  as  much 
pleasure  and  amusement  out  of  their  life  as  was 
to  be  afforded  by  the  opportunities  at  hand: 
Boating,  tennis,  riding,  driving;  an  occasional 
picnic,  by  invitation,  at  one  or  the  other  of  two 
very  pretty  waterfalls,  far  enough  away  to  make 
the  drive  there  and  back  a  feature;  as  much 
dancing  in  an  informal  way  as  could  be  managed 
by  the  younger  people;  and  a  certain  amount  of 
flirtation,  of  course  (but  of  a  very  harmless  sort), 
to  supply  zest  to  all  the  rest.  But  it  is  not  intend 
ed  to  give  a  minute  account  of  the  life,  nor  to  de 
scribe  in  detail  all  the  pursuits  and  festivities 
which  prevailed  during  the  season.  Enough  to 
say  that  our  friend  soon  had  opportunity  to  par 
take  in  them  as  much  and  often  as  was  compat 
ible  with  his  duties.  His  first  call  at  Lake- 
lawn  happened  to  be  on  an  evening  when  the 
ladies  were  not  at  home,  and  it  is  quite  certain 
that  upon  this,  the  occasion  of  his  first  essay  of 
the  sort,  he  experienced  a  strong  feeling  of  relief 
to  be  able  to  leave  cards  instead  of  meeting  a 


304 


DAVID   HARUM. 


number  of  strange  people,  as  he  had  thought 
would  be  likely. 

One  morning,  some  days  later,  Peleg  Hop 
kins  came  in  with  a  grin  and  said,  "  The's  some 
folks  eout  in  front  wants  you  to  come  eout  an' 
see  'em." 

''Who  are  they?"  asked  John,  who  for  the 
moment  was  in  the  back  room  and  had  not  seen 
the  carriage  drive  up. 

"  The  two  Verjoos  gals,"  said  Peleg  with  an 
other  distortion  of  his  freckled  countenance. 
"  One  on  'em  hailed  me  as  I  was  comin'  in  and 
ast  me  to  ast  you  to  come  eout."  John  laughed 
a  little  as  he  wondered  what  their  feeling  would 
be  were  they  aware  that  they  were  denomi 
nated  as  the  "  Verjoos  gals  "  by  people  of  Peleg's 
standing  in  the  community. 

"  We  were  so  sorry  to  miss  your  visit  the 
other  evening,"  said  Miss  Clara,  after  the  usual 
salutations.  * 

John  said  something  about  the  loss  having 
been  his  own,  and  after  a  few  remarks  of  no 
special  moment  the  young  woman  proceeded  to 
set  forth  her  errand. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Bensons  from  Syrches- 
ter?"  she  asked. 

John  replied  that  he  knew  who  they  were  but 
had  not  the  pleasure  of  their  acquaintance. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Clara,  "  they  are  extremely 
nice  people,  and  Mrs.  Benson  is  very  musical; 
in  fact,  Mr.  Benson  does  something  in  that  line 
himself.  They  have  with  them  for  a  few  days  a 
violinist,  Fairman  I  think  his  name  is,  from  Bos 
ton,  and  a  pianist — what  was  it,  Juliet?  " 

"  Schlitz,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Verjoos. 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  is  it,  and  they  are  coming  to 


DAVID   HARUM.  305* 

the  house  to-night,  and  we  are  going  to  have 
some  music  in  an  informal  sort  of  way.  We  shall 
be  glad  to  have  you  come  if  you  can." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  John  sincerely. 
"At  what  time?" 

"  Any  time  you  like,"  she  said;  "  but  the  Ben- 
sons  will  probably  get  there  about  half-past  eight 
or  nine  o'clock." 

"Thank  ycu  very  much,  and  I  shall  be  de 
lighted,"  he  repeated. 

Miss  Clara  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with 
a  hesitating  air. 

"  There  is  another  thing  "  she  said. 

"Yesr 

:<  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
that  you  will  surely  be  asked  to  sing.  Quite  a 
good  many  people  who  have  heard  you  in  the 
quartette  in  church  are  anxious  to  hear  you  sing 
alone,  Mrs.  Benson  among  them." 

John's  face  fell  a  little. 

!<  You  do  sing  other  than  church  music,  do 
you  not?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  admitted,  "  I  know  some  other 
music." 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  a  bore  to 
you." 

"  No,"  said  John,  who  indeed  saw  no  way  out 
of  it;  "I  will  bring  some  music,  with  pleasure, 
if  you  wish." 

;'  That's  very  nice  of  you,"  said  Miss  Clara, 
and  you  will  give  us  all  a  great  deal  of  pleas 
ure." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"  That  will  depend,"  he  said,  and  after  a  mo 
ment,  "Who  will  play  for  me?" 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  that,"  was  the  reply. 


306 


DAVID   HARUM. 


"  I  think  I  rather  took  it  for  granted  that  yon 
could  play  for  yourself.  Can't  you?" 

"  After  a  fashion,  and  simple  things,"  he  said, 
"  but  on  an  occasion  I  would  rather  not  at 
tempt  it." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  sister  in  some  per 
plexity. 

"  I  should  think,"  suggested  Miss  Verjoos, 
speaking  for  the  second  time,  "  that  Mr.  or  Herr 
Schlitz  would  play  your  accompaniments,  par 
ticularly  if  Mrs.  Benson  were  to  ask  him,  and  if 
he  can  play  for  the  violin  I  should  fancy  he  can 
for  the  voice." 

"  Very  well,"  said  John,  "  we  will  let  it  go  at 
that."  As  he  spoke  David  came  round  the  cor 
ner  of  the  bank  and  up  to  the  carriage. 

"  How  d'y'  do,  Miss  Verjoos?  How  air  ye, 
Miss  Claricy?"  he  asked,  taking  off  his  straw 
hat  and  mopping  his  face  and  head  with  his  hand 
kerchief.  "  Guess  we're  goin'  to  lose  our  sleigh- 
in',  ain't  we?  " 

"  It  seems  to  be  going  pretty  fast,"  replied 
Miss  Clara,  laughing. 

11  Yes'm,"  he  remarked,  "  we  sh'll  be  scrapin' 
bare  ground  putty  soon  now  if  this  weather  holds 
on.  How's  the  old  hoss  now  you  got  him  agin?  " 
he  asked.  "  Seem  to  've  wintered  putty  well? 
Putty  chipper,  is  he?" 

"  Better  than  ever,"  she  affirmed.  "  He 
seems  to  grow  younger  every  year." 

"  Come,  now,"  said  David,  "  that  ain't  a-goin' 
to  do.  I  cal'lated  to  sell  ye  another  hoss  this 
summer  anyway.  Ben  dependin'  on't  in  fact,  to 
pay  a  dividend.  The  bankin'  bus'nis  has  been  so 
neglected  since  this  feller  come  that  it  don't 
amount  to  much  any  more,"  and  he  laid  his  hand 


DAVID   HARUM.  307 

on  John's  shoulder,  who  colored  a  little  as  he 
caught  a  Inok  of  demure  amusement  in  the  som 
ber  eyes  of  the  elder  sister. 

"  After  that,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I  had  better 
get  back  to  my  neglected  duties,"  and  he  bowed 
his  adieus. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Miss  Clara  to  David,  "  you 
must  get  your  dividend  out  of  some  one  else  this 
summer." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  he,  "  I  see  I  made  a  mistake 
takin'  such  good  care  on  him.  Guess  I'll  have  to 
turn  him  over  to  Dug  Robinson  to  winter  next 
year.  Ben  havin'  a  little  visit  with  John?"  he 
asked.  Miss  Clara  colored  a  little,  with  some 
thing  of  the  same  look  which  John  had  seen  in 
her  sister's  face. 

"  We  are  going  to  have  some  music  at  the 
house  to-night,  and  Mr.  Lenox  has  kindly  prom 
ised  to  sing  for  us,"  she  replied. 

"He  has,  has  he?"  said  David,  full  of  interest. 
"  Wa'al,  he's  the  feller  c'n  do  it  if  anybody  can. 
We  have  singin'  an'  music  up  t'  the  house  ev-'ry 
Sunday  night — me  an'  Polly  an'  him — an'  it's 
fine.  Yes,  ma'am,  I  don't  know  much  about 
music  myself,  but  I  c'n  beat  time,  an'  he's  got  a 
stack  o'  music  more'n  a  mile  high,  an'  one  o'  the 
songs  he  sings  '11  jest  make  the  windows  rattle. 
That's  my  fav*rit,"  averred  Mr.  Harum. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  name  of  it?"  asked 
Miss  Clara. 

"  No,"  he  said;  "  John  told  me,  an'  I  guess  I'd 
know  it  if  I  heard  it;  but  it's  about  a  feller  sittin' 
one  day  by  the  org'n  an'  not  feelin'  exac'ly  right 
— kind  o'  tired  an'  out  o'  sorts  an'  not  knowin' 
jes'  where  he  was  drivin'  at — jes'  joggin'  'long 
with  a  loose  rein  fer  quite  a  piece,  an'  so  on ;  an' 


308 


DAVID   HARUM. 


then,  by  an'  by,  strikin'  right  into  his  gait  an* 
goin'  on  stronger  'n  stronger,  an'  fir'ly  finishin' 
up  with  an  A — men  that  carries  him  quarter  way 
round  the  track  'fore  he  c'n  pull  up.  That's  my 
fav'rit,"  Mr.  Harum  repeated,  "  'cept  when  him 
an'  Polly  sings  together,  an'  if  that  ain't  a  show 
— pertic'lerly  Polly — I  don't  want  a  cent.  No, 
ma'am,  when  him  an'  Polly  gits  good  an'  goin' 
you  can't  see  'em  fer  dust." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  them,"  said  Miss  Clara, 
laughing,  "  and  I  should  particularly  like  to  hear 
your  favorite,  the  one  which  ends  witb  the  Amen 
— the  very  large  A — men." 

"  Seventeen  hands,"  declared  Mr.  Harum., 
"  Must  you  be  goin'?  Wa'al,  glad  to  have  seen 
ye.  Polly's  hopin'  you'll  come  an'  see  her  putty 
soon." 

"  I  will,"  she  promised.  "  Give  her  my  love, 
and  tell  her  so,  please." 

They  drove  away  and  David  sauntered  in, 
went  behind  the  desks,  and  perched  himself  up 
on  a  stool  near  the  teller's  counter  as  he  often 
did  when  in  the  office,  and  John  was  not  particu 
larly  engaged. 

"Got  you  roped  in,  have  they?"  he  said, 

using  his  hat  as  a  fan.  "  Scat  my !  but  ain't 

this  a  ring-tail  squealer?  " 

"  It  is  very  hot,"  responded  John. 

"  Miss  Claricy  says  you're  goin'  to  sing  fer 
'em  up  to  their  house  to-night." 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  with  a  slight  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  as  he  pinned  a  paper  strap  around  a 
pile  of  bills  and  began  to  count  out  another. 

"  Don't  feel  very  fierce  for  it,  I  guess,  do 
ye?  "  said  David,  looking  shrewdly  at  him. 

"  Not  very,"  said  John,  with  a  short  laugh. 


DAVID   HARUM.  369 

"  Feel  a  little  skittish  'bout  it,  eh?  "  suggested 
Mr.  Harum.  "  Don't  see  why  ye  should — any 
body  that  c'n  put  up  a  tune  the  way  you  kin/' 

"  It's  rather  different,"  observed  the  younger 
man,  "singing  for  you  and  Mrs.  Bixbee  and 
standing  up  before  a  lot  of  strange  people." 

"  H-m,  h-m,"  said  David  with  a  nod;  "  diff'- 
rence  'tween  joggin'  along  on  the  road  an'  driv- 
in'  a  fust  heat  on  the  track;  in  one  case  the'  ain't 
nothin'  up,  an'  ye  don't  care  whether  you  git  there 
a  little  more  previously  or  a  little  less;  an'  in  the 
other  the's  the  crowd,  an'  the  judges,  an'  the 
stake,  an'  your  record,  an'  mebbe  the  pool  box 
into  the  barg'in,  that's  all  got  to  be  considered. 
Feller  don't  mind  it  so  much  after  he  gits  fairly 
off,  but  thinkin'  on't  beforehand  's  fidgity  bus'- 
nis." 

;<  You  have  illustrated  it  exactly,"  said  John, 
laughing,  and  much  amused  at  David's  very 
characteristic,  as  well  as  accurate,  illustration. 

"My!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Polly,  when  John 
came  into  the  sitting  room  after  dinner  dressed 
to  go  out.  "  My,  don't  he  look  nice?  I  never 
see  you  in  them  clo'es.  Come  here  a  minute," 
and  she  picked  a  thread  off  his  sleeve  and  took 
the  opportunity  to  turn  him  round  for  the  pur 
pose  of  giving  him  a  thorough  inspection. 

"  That  wa'n't  what  you  said  when  you  see  me 
in  my  gold-plated  harniss,"  remarked  David,  with 
a  grin.  "  You  didn't  say  nothin'  putty  to  me." 

"  Humph!  I  guess  the's  some  diff'rence,"  ob 
served  Mrs.  Bixbee  with  scorn,  and  her  brother 
laughed. 

"  How  was  you  cal'latin'  to  git  there? "  he 
asked,  looking  at  our  friend's  evening  shoes. 


DAVID   HARUM. 

"  I  thought  at  first  I  would  walk,"  was  the 
reply,  "  but  I  rather  think  I  will  stop  at  Robin 
son's  and  get  him  to  send  me  over." 

"  I  guess  you  won't  do  nothin'  o'  the  sort, 
declared  David.    "  Mike's  all  hitched  to  take  you 
over,  an'  when  you're  ready  jes'  ring  the  bell." 

"  You're  awfully  kind,"  said  John  gratefully, 
"but  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  be  coming 

home."  „ 

"  Come  back  when  you  git  a  good  ready, 
said  Mr.  Harum.     "  If  you  keep  him  an'  the  hoss 
waitin'  a  spell,  I  guess  they  won't  take  cold  this 
weather." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THE  Verjoos  house,  of  old  red  brick,  stands 
about  a  hundred  feet  back  from  the  north  side  of 
the  Lake  Road,  on  the  south  shore  of  the  lake. 
Since  its  original  construction  a  porte  cochere 
has  been  built  upon  the  front.  A  very  broad 
hall,  from  which  rises  the  stairway  with  a  double 
turn  and  landing,  divides  the  main  body  of  the 
house  through  the  middle.  On  the  left,  as  one 
enters,  is  the  great  drawing  room ;  on  the  right  a 
parlor  opening  into  a  library;  and  beyond,  the 
dining  room,  which  looks  out  over  the  lake. 
The  hall  opens  in  the  rear  upon  a  broad,  covered 
veranda,  facing  the  water,  with  a  flight  of  steps  to 
a  lawn  which  slopes  down  to  the  lake  shore,  a 
distance  of  some  hundred  and  fifty  yards. 

John  had  to  pass  through  a  little  flock  of 
young  people  who  stood  near  and  about  the  en 
trance  to  the  drawing  room,  and  having  given 
his  package  of  music  to  the  maid  in  waiting,  with 
a  request  that  it  be  put  upon  the  piano,  he  mount 
ed  the  stairs  to  deposit  his  hat  and  coat,  and  then 
went  down. 

In  the  south  end  of  the  drawing  room  were 
some  twenty  people  sitting  and  standing  about, 
most  of  them  the  elders  of  the  families  who  con 
stituted  society  in  Homeville,  many  of  whom 
John  had  met,  and  nearly  all  of  whom  he  knew 


3I2 


DAVID   HARUM. 


by  sight  and  name.  On  the  edge  of  the  group, 
and  halfway  down  the  room,  were  Mrs.  \  erjoos 
and  her  younger  daughter,  who  gave  him  a  qor- 
dial  greeting;  and  the  elder  lady  was  kind  enough 
to  repeat  her  daughter's  morning  assurances  of 
regret  that  they  were  out  on  the  occasion  of 
his  call. 

"  I  trust  you  have  been  as  good  as  your 
word,"  said  Miss  Clara,  "  and  brought  some 
music." 

"  Yes,  it  is  on  the  piano,"  he  replied,  looking 
across  the  room  to  where  the  instrument  stood. 

The  girl  laughed.  "  I  wish,"  she  said,  "  you 
could  have  heard  what  Mr.  Harum  said  this 
morning  about  your  singing,  particularly  his  de 
scription  of  The  Lost  Chord,  and  I  wish  that  I 
could  repeat  it  just  as  he  gave  it." 

"  It's  about  a  feller  sittin'  one  day  by  the 
org'n,"  came  a  voice  from  behind  John's  shoulder, 
so  like  David's  as  fairly  to  startle  him,  "  an*  not 
feelin'  exac'ly  right — kind  o'  tired  an'  out  o'  sorts, 
an'  not  knowin'  jes'  where  he  was  drivin'  at — jes' 
joggin'  along  with  a  loose  rein  fer  quite  a  piece, 
an'  so  on;  an'  then,  by  an'  by,  strikin'  right  into 
his  gait  an'  goin'  on  stronger  an'  stronger,  an' 
fin'ly  finishin'  up  with  an  A — men  that  carries  him 
quarter  way  'round  the  track  'fore  he  c'n  pull 
up."  They  all  laughed  except  Miss  Verjoos, 
whose  gravity  was  unbroken,  save  that  behind 
the  dusky  windows  of  her  eyes,  as  she  looked  at 
John,  there  was  for  an  instant  a  gleam  of  mis 
chievous  drollery. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Lenox,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  and  hardly  waiting 
for  his  response,  she  turned  and  walked  away. 

"That   is   Juliet   all   over,"    said    her   sister. 


DAVID   HARUM.  313* 

"  You  would  not  think  to  see  her  ordinarily  that 
she  was  given  to  that  sort  of  thing,  but  once  in 
a  while,  when  she  feels  like  it — well — pranks! 
She  is  the  funniest  creature  that  ever  lived,  I  be 
lieve,  and  can  mimic  and  imitate  any  mortal  crea 
ture.  She  sat  in  the  carriage  this  morning,  and 
one  might  have  fancied  from  her  expression  that 
she  hardly  heard  a  word,  but  I  haven't  a  doubt 
that  she  could  repeat  every  syllable  that  was  ut 
tered.  Oh,  here  come  the  Bensons  and  their 
musicians." 

John  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  toward  the 
end  of  the  room,  but  was  presently  recalled  and 
presented  to  the  newcomers.  After  a  little  talk 
the  Bensons  settled  themselves  in  the  corner  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  room,  where  seats  were 
placed  for  the  two  musicians,  and  our  friend  took 
a  seat  near  where  he  had  been  standing.  The  vio 
linist  adjusted  his  folding  music  rest.  Miss  Clara 
stepped  over  to  the  entrance  door  and  put  up  her 
ringer  at  the  young  people  in  the  hall.  "  After 
the  music  begins,"  she  said,  with  a  shake  of  the 
head,  "  if  I  hear  one  sound  of  giggling  or  chat 
tering,  I  will  send  every  one  of  you  young  hea 
then  home.  Remember  now!  This  isn't  your 
party  at  all." 

"  But,  Clara,  dear,"  said  Sue  Tenaker  (aged 
fifteen),  "  if  we  are  very  good  and  quiet  do  you 
think  they  would  play  for  us  to  dance  a  little 
by  and  by?" 

"  Impudence! "  exclaimed  Miss  Clara,  giving 
the  girl's  cheek  a  playful  slap  and  going  back  to 
her  pla-ce.  Miss  Verjoos  came  in  and  took  a 
chair  by  her  sister.  Mrs.  Benson  leaned  forward 
and  raised  her  eyebrows  at  Miss  Clara,  who  took 
a  quick  survey  of  the  room  and  nodded  in  return. 


DAVID    HARUM. 

Herr  Schlitz  seated  himself  on  the  piano  chair, 
pushed  it  a  little  back,  drew  it  a  little  forward  to 
the  original  place,  looked  under  the  piano  at 
the  pedals,  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped 
his  face  and  hands,  and  after  arpeggioing  up 
and  down  the  key-board,  swung  into  a  waltz  of 
Chopin's  (Opus  34,  Number  i),  a  favorite  of 
our  friend's,  and  which  he  would  have  thor 
oughly  enjoyed — for  it  was  splendidly  played — 
if  he  had  not  been  uneasily  apprehensive  that  he 
might  be  asked  to  sing  after  it.  And  while  on 
some  accounts  he  would  have  been  glad  of  the 
opportunity  to  "  have  it  over,"  he  felt  a  cowardly 
sense  of  relief  when  the  violinist  came  forward 
for  the  next  number.  There  had  been  enthusi 
astic  applause  at  the  north  end  of  the  room,  and 
more  or  less  clapping  of  hands  at  the  south  end, 
but  not  enough  to  impel  the  pianist  to  supple 
ment  his  performance  at  the  time.  The  violin 
number  was  so  well  received  that  Mr.  Fairman 
added  a  little  minuet  of  Boccherini's  without  ac 
companiment,  and  then  John  felt  that  his  time 
had  surely  come.  But  he  had  to  sit,  drawing 
long  breaths,  through  a  Liszt  fantasie  on  themes 
from  Faust  before  his  suspense  was  ended  by 
Miss  Clara,  who  was  apparently  mistress  of  cere 
monies  and  who  said  to  him,  "  Will  you  sing 
now,  Mr.  Lenox?  " 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  end  of  the  room 
where  the  pianist  was  sitting.  "  I  have  been 
asked  to  sing,"  he  said  to  that  gentleman.  "  Can 
I  induce  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  play  for  me?  " 

"  I  am  sure  he  will,"  said  Mrs.  Benson,  look 
ing  at  Herr  Schlitz. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  blay  for  you  if  you  vant,"  he 
said.  "  Vhere  is  your  moosic?  "  They  went  over 


DAVID   HARUM.  315 

to  the  piano.  "  Oh,  ho!  Jensen,  Lassen,  Hel- 
mund,  Grieg — you  zing  dem?" 

"  Some  of  them,"  said  John.  The  pianist 
opened  the  Jensen  album. 

"  You  want  to  zing  one  of  dese?  "  he  asked. 

"  As  well  as  anything,"  replied  John,  who  had 
changed  his  mind  a  dozen  times  in  the  last  ten 
minutes  and  was  ready  to  accept  any  suggestion. 

"Ver'  goot,"  said  the  other.  "  Ve  dry  dis: 
Lehn  deine  wang'  an  meine  Wang'."  His  face 
brightened  as  John  began  to  sing  the  German 
words.  In  a  measure  or  two  the  singer  and 
player  were  in  perfect  accord,  and  as  the  former 
found  his  voice  the  ends  of  his  fingers  grew 
warm  again.  At  the  end  of  the  song  the  ap 
plause  was  distributed  about  as  after  the  Chopin 
waltz. 

"  Sehr  schon! "  exclaimed  Herr  Schlitz,  look 
ing  up  and  nodding;  "  you  must  zing  zome 
more,"  and  he  played  the  first  bars  of  Marie, 
am  Fenster  sitzest  du,  humming  the  words  under 
his  breath,  and  quite  oblivious  of  any  one  but 
himself  and  the  singer. 

"  Zierlich,"  he  said  when  the  song  was  done, 
reaching  for  the  collection  of  Lassen.  "  Mit 
deinen  blauen  Augen,"  he  hummed,  keeping  time 
with  his  hands,  but  at  this  point  Miss  Clara  came 
across  the  room,  followed  by  her  sister. 

"  Mrs.  Tenaker,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  asked 
me  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Lenox,  if  you  wouldn't  please 
sing  something  they  could  understand." 

"  I  have  a  song  I  should  like  to  hear  yon 
sing,"  said  Miss  Verjoos.  "  There  is  an  obligate 
for  violin  and  we  have  a  violinist  here.  It  is  a 
beautiful  song — Tosti's  Beauty's  Eyes.  Do  you 
know  it?" 


3i6 


DAVID   IIARUM. 


"  Yes,"  he  replied. 

"  Will  you  sing  it  for  me?  "  she  asked. 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure,"  he  answered. 

Once,  as  he  sang  the  lines  of  the  song,  he 
looked  up.  Miss  Verjoos  was  sitting  with  her 
elbows  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  her  cheek  rest 
ing  upon  her  clasped  hands  and  her  dusky  eyes 
were  fastened  upon  his  face.  As  the  song  con 
cluded  she  rose  and  walked  away.  Mrs.  Ten- 
aker  came  over  to  the  piano  and  put  out  her 
hand. 

"  Thank  you  so  much  for  your  singing,  Mr. 
Lenox,"  she  said.  "  Would  you  like  to  do  an  old 
woman  a  favor?  " 

"  Very  much  so,"  said  John,  smiling  and 
looking  first  at  Mrs.  Tenaker  and  then  about  the 
room,  "  but  there  are  no  old  women  here  as  far 
as  I  can  see." 

"  Very  pretty,  sir,  very  pretty,"  she  said,  look 
ing  very  graciously  at  him.  "  Will  you  sing 
Annie  Laurie  for  me?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  he  said,  bowing. 
He  looked  at  Herr  Schlitz,  who  shook  his 
head. 

"  Let  me  play  it  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Benson, 
coming  over  to  the  piano. 

"Where  do  you  want  it?"  she  asked,  modu 
lating  softly  from  one  key  to  another. 

"  I  think  D  flat  will  be  about  right,"  he  re 
plied.  "  Kindly  play  a  little  bit  of  it." 

The  sound  of  the  symphony  brought  most  of 
even  the  young  people  into  the  drawing  room. 
At  the  end  of  the  first  verse  there  was  a  subdued 
rustle  of  applause,  a  little  more  after  the  second, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  song  so  much  of  a  burst  of 
approval  as  could  be  produced  by  the  audience. 


DAVID   HARUM. 


Mrs.  Benson  locked  up  into  John's  face  and 
smiled. 

"  We  appear  to  have  scored  the  success  of  the 
evening,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm.  Miss 
Clara  joined  them. 

"What  a  dear  old  song  that  is!"  she  said. 
"  Did  you  see  Aunt  Charlie  (Mrs.  Tenaker)  wip 
ing  her  eyes?  —  and  that  lovely  thirg  of  Tosti's! 
We  are  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr. 
Lenox." 

John  bowed  his  acknowledgments. 

"  Will  you  take  Mrs.  Benson  out  to  supper? 
There  is  a  special  table  for  you  musical  people 
at  the  east  end  of  the  veranda." 

"  Is  this  merely  a  segregation  or  a  distinc 
tion?"  said  John  as  they  sat  down. 

"  We  shall  have  to  wait  developments  to  de 
cide  that  point,  I  should  say,"  replied  Mrs.  Ben 
son.  "  I  suppose  that  fifth  place  was  put  on  the 
off  chance  that  Mr.  Benson  might  be  of  our  par 
ty,  but,"  she  said,  with  a  short  laugh,  "  he  is  prob 
ably  nine  fathoms  deep  in  a  flirtation  with  Sue 
Tenaker.  He  shares  Artemas  Ward's  tastes,  who 
said,  you  may  remember,  that  he  liked  little  girls 
—  big  ones  too." 

A  maid  appeared  with  a  tray  of  eatables,  and 
presently  another  with  a  tray  on  which  were 
glasses  and  a  bottle  of  Pommery  sec.  "  Miss 
Clara's  compliments,"  she  said. 

"  What  do  you  think  now?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ben 
son,  laughing. 

"  Distinctly  a  distinction,  I  should  say,"  he 
replied. 

"  Das  ist  nicht  so  schlecht,"  grunted  Herr 
Schlitz  as  he  put  half  a  pate  into  his  mouth,  "  bot 
I  vould  brefer  beer." 


DAVID    HARUM. 

"  The  music  has  been  a  great  treat  to  me," 
remarked  John.  "  I  have  heard  nothing  of  the 
sort  for  two  years." 

"  You  have  quite  contributed  your  share  of 
the  entertainment,"  said  Mrs.  Benson. 

"  You  and  I  together,"  he  responded,  smiling. 

"  You   have   got  a  be-oodifool   woice,"   said 
Herr  Schlitz,  speaking  with  a  mouthful  of  salad, 
"  und  you  zing  ligh  a  moosician,  und  you  bro- 
nounce  your  vorts  very  goot." 
1  Thank  you,"  said  John. 

After  supper  there  was  more  singing  in  the 
drawing  room,  but  it  was  not  of  a  very  classical 
order.  Something  short  and  taking  for  violin 
and  piano  was  followed  by  an  announcement 
from  Herr  Schlitz. 

"  I  zing  you  a  zong,"  he  said.  The  worthy 
man  "  breferred  beer,"  but  had,  perhaps,  found 
the  wine  quicker  in  effect,  and  in  a  tremendous 
bass  voice  he  roared  out,  Im  tiefen  Keller  sitz'  ich 
hier,  auf  einem  Fass  voll  Reben,  which,  if  not 
wholly  understood  by  the  audience,  had  some  of 
its  purport  conveyed  by  the  threefold  repetition 
of  "  trinke  "  at  the  end  of  each  verse.  Then  a 
deputation  waited  upon  John,  to  ask  in  behalf  of 
the  girls  and  boys  if  he  knew  and  could  sing 
Solomon  Levi. 

:<  Yes,"  he  said,  sitting  down  at  the  piano,  "  if 
you'll  all  sing  with  me,"  and  it  came  to  pass  that 
that  classic,  followed  by  Bring  Back  my  Bonnie 
;to  Me,  Paddy  Duffy's  Cart,  There's  Music  in  the 
Air,  and  sundry  other  ditties  dear  to  all  hearts, 
was  given  by  "  the  full  strength  of  the  company  " 
with  such  enthusiasm  that  even  Mr.  Fairman  was 
moved  to  join  in  with  his  violin;  and  when  the 
Soldier's  Farewell  was  given,  Herr  Schlitz  would 


DAVID   HARUM.  319- 

have  sung  the  windows  out  of  their  frames  had 
they  not  been  open.  Altogether,  the  even 
ing's  programme  was  brought  to  an  end  with  a 
grand  climax. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  John  as  he 
said  good  night  to  Mrs.  Verjoos.  "  I  don't  know 
when  I  have  enjoyed  an  evening  so  much." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  she  returned  gra 
ciously.  "  You  have  given  us  all  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Verjoos,  giving  her  hand 
with  a  mischievous  gleam  in  her  half-shut  eyes, 
"  I  was  enchanted  with  Solomon  Levi." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

DAVID  and  John  had  been  driving  for  some 
time  in  silence.  The  elder  man  was  apparently 
musing  upon  something  which  had  been  sug 
gested  to  his  mind.  The  horses  slackened  their 
gait  to  a  walk  as  they  began  the  ascent  of  a  long 
hill.  Presently  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  sound 
which  caused  John  to  turn  his  head  with  a  look 
of  surprised  amusement — Mr.  Harum  was  sing 
ing.  The  tune,  if  it  could  be  so  called,  was  scale- 
less,  and  these  were  the  words: 

"  Monday  mornin'  I  married  me  a  wife, 
Thinkin*  to  lead  a  more  contented  life ; 
Fiddlin'  an'  danciri  the*  was  played, 
To  see  how  unhappy  poor  /  was  made, 

"  Tuesday  mornin',  'bout  break  o'  day, 
While  my  head  on  the  /*71er  did  lay, 
She  tuned  up  her  clack,  an'  scolded  more 
Than  I  ever  heard  before" 

"  Never  heard  me  sing  before,  did  ye?  "  he 
said,  looking  with  a  grin  at  his  companion,  who 
laughed  and  said  that  he  had  never  had  that  pleas 
ure.  "  Wa'al,  that's  all  't  I  remember  on't,"  said 
David,  "  an'  I  dunno  's  I've  thought  about  it  in 
thirty  year.  The'  was  a  number  o'  verses  which 
carried  'em  through  the  rest  o'  the  week,  an' 
ended  up  in  a  case  of  'sault  an'  battery,  I  rec'lect, 
320 


DAVID   HARUM. 


321 


but  I  don't  remember  jest  how.     Somethin'  we 
ben  sayin'  put  the  thing  into  my  head,  I  guess." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  the  rest  of  it,"  said 
John,  smiling. 

David  made  no  reply  to  this,  and  seemed  to 
be  turning  something  over  in  his  mind.  At  last 
he  said: 

"  Mebbe  Polly's  told  ye  that  I'm  a  wid'wer." 

John  admitted  that  Mrs.  Bixbee  had  said  as 
much  as  that. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Da.vid,  "  I'm  a  wid'wer  of 
long  standin'." 

No  appropriate  comment  suggesting  itself  to 
his  listener,  none  was  made. 

"  I  hain't  never  cared  to  say  much  about  it  to 
Polly,"  he  remarked,  "  though  fer  that  matter 
Jim  Bixbee,  f'm  all  accounts,  was  about  as  poor 
a  shack  as  ever  was  turned  out,  I  guess,  an' " 

John  took  advantage  of  the  slight  hesitation 
to  interpose  against  what  he  apprehended  might 
be  a  lengthy  digression  on  the  subject  of  the  de 
ceased  Bixbee  by  saying: 

"  You  were  quite  a  young  fellow  when  you 
were  married,  I  infer." 

"  Two  or  three  years  younger  'n  you  be,  I 
guess,"  said  David,  looking  at  him,  "  an'  a  putty 
green  colt  too  in  some  ways,"  he  added,  handing 
over  the  reins  and  whip  while  he  got  out  his  sil 
ver  tobacco  box  and  helped  himself  to  a  liberal 
portion  of  its  contents.  It  was  plain  that  he  was 
in  the  mood  for  personal  reminiscences. 

"  As  I  look  back  on't  now,"  he  began,  "  it 
kind  o'  seems  as  if  it  must  'a'  ben  some  other 
feller,  an'  yet  I  remember  it  all  putty  dum'd  well 
too — all  but  one  thing,  an'  that  the  biggist  part 
on't,  an'  that  is  how  I  ever  come  to  git  married 


DAVID   HARUM. 

at  all.  She  was  a  widdo'  at  the  time,  an'  kep'  the 
boardin'  house  where  I  was  livin'.  It  was  up  to 
Syrchester.  I  was  better  lookin'  them  days  'n  I 
be  now — had  more  hair  at  any  rate — though,"  he 
remarked  with  a  grin,  "  I  was  alwus  a  better  goer 
than  I  was  a  looker.  I  was  doin'  fairly  well,"  he 
continued,  "  but  mebbe  not  so  well  as  was 
thought  by  some. 

"  Wa'al,  she  was  a  good-lookin'  woman,  some 
older  'n  I  was.  She  seemed  to  take  some  shine 
to  me.  I'd  roughed  it  putty  much  alwus,  an'  she 
was  putty  clever  to  me.  She  was  a  good  talker, 
liked  a  joke  an'  a  laugh,  an'  had  some  education, 
an'  it  come  about  that  I  got  to  beauin'  her  'round 
quite  a  consid'able,  and  used  to  go  an'  set  in  her 
room  or  the  parlor  with  her  sometimes  evenin's 
an'  all  that,  an'  I  wouldn't  deny  that  I  liked  it 
putty  well." 

It  was  some  minutes  before  Mr.  Harum  re 
sumed  his  narrative.  The  reins  were  sagging 
over  the  dashboard,  held  loosely  between  the 
first  two  fingers  and  thumb  of  his  left  hand, 
while  with  his  right  he  had  been  making  ab 
stracted  cuts  at  the  thistles  and  other  eligible 
marks  along  the  roadside. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  said  at  last,  "we  was  married, an' 
our  wheels  tracked  putty  well  fer  quite  a  consid' 
able  spell.  I  got  to  thinkin'  more  of  her  all  the 
time,  an'  she  me,  seemin'ly.  We  took  a  few  days 
off  together  two  three  times  that  summer,  to  Ni- 
ag'ry,  an'  Saratogy,  an'  'round,  an'  had  real  good 
times.  I  got  to  thinkin'  that  the  state  of  mat 
rimony  was  a  putty  good  institution.  When  it 
come  along  fall,  I  was  doin'  well  enough  so  't 
she  could  give  up  bus'nis,  an'  I  hired  a  house  an' 
we  set  up  housekeepin'.  It  was  really  more  on 


DAVID    HARUM.  323 

my  account  than  hern,  fer  I  got  to  kind  o'  feelin' 
that  when  the  meat  was  tough  or  the  pie  wa'n't 
done  on  the  bottom  that  I  was  'sociated  with  it, 
an'  gen'ally  I  wanted  a  place  of  my  own.  But," 
he  added,  "  I  guess  it  was  a  mistake,  fur  's  she 
was  concerned." 

"Why?"  said  John,  feeling  that  some  show 
of  interest  was  incumbent. 

"  I  reckon,"  said  David,  "  't  she  kind  o'  missed 
the  comp'ny  an'  the  talk  at  table,  an'  the  goin's 
on  gen'ally,  an'  mebbe  the  work  of  runnin'  the 
place — she  was  a  great  worker — an'  it  got  to  be 
some  diff'rent,  I  s'pose,  after  a  spell,  settin'  down 
to  three  meals  a  day  with  jest  only  me  'stid  of  a 
tableful,  to  say  nothin'  of  the  evenin's.  I  was 
glad  enough  to  have  a  place  of  my  own,  but  at 
the  same  time  I  hadn't  ben  used  to  settin'  'round 
with  nothin'  pertic'ler  to  do  or  say,  with  some 
body  else  that  hadn't  neither,  an'  I  wa'n't  then 
nor  ain't  now,  fer  that  matter,  any  great  hand  fer 
readin'.  Then,  too,  we'd  moved  into  a  diff'rent 
part  o'  the  town  where  my  wife  wa'n't  acquainted. 
Wa'al,  anyway,  fust  things  begun  to  drag  some 
— she  begun  to  have  spells  of  not  speakin',  an' 
then  she  begun  to  git  notions  about  me.  Once 
in  a  while  I'd  have  to  go  down  town  on  some 
bus'nis  in  the  evenin'.  She  didn't  seem  to  mind 
it  at  fust,  but  bom-by  she  got  it  into  her  head 
that  the'  wa'n't  so  much  bus'nis  goin'  on  as  I 
made  out,  an'  though  along  that  time  she'd  set 
sometimes  mebbe  the  hull  evenin'  without  sayin' 
anythin'  more  'n  yes  or  no,  an'  putty  often  not 
that,  yet  if  I  went  out  there'd  be  a  flare-up ;  an'  as 
things  went  on  the'd  be  spells  fer  a  fortni't  to 
gether  when  I  couldn't  any  time  of  day  git  a 
word  out  of  her  hardly,  unless  it  was  to  go  fer 


3^4 


DAVID    HARUM. 


me  'bout  somethin'  that  mebbe  I'd  done  an'  meb- 
be  I  hadn't — it  didn't  make  no  diffrence.  An' 
when  them  spells  was  on,  what  she  didn't  take 
out  o'  me  she  did  out  o'  the  house — diggin'  an' 
scrubbin',  takin'  up  carpits,  layin'  down  carpits, 
shiftin'  the  furniture,  eatin'  one  day  in  the  kitchin 
an'  another  in  the  settin'  room,  an'  sleepin'  most 
anywhere.  She  wa'n't  real  well  after  a  while, 
an'  the  wuss  she  seemed  to  feel,  the  fiercer  she 
was  fer  scrubbin'  an'  diggin'  an'  upsettin'  things 
in  gen'ral,  an'  bom-by  she  got  so  she  couldn't 
keep  a  hired  girl  in  the  house  more  'n  a  day  or 
two  at  a  time.  She  either  wouldn't  have  'em,  or 
they  wouldn't  stay,  an'  more  'n  half  the  time  we 
was  without  one.  This  can't  int'rist  you  much, 
can  it?"  said  Mr.  Harum,  turning  to  his  com 
panion. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  John,  "  it  interests 
me  very  much.  I  was  thinking,"  he  added,  "  that 
probably  the  state  of  your  wife's  health  had  a 
good  deal  to  do  with  her  actions  and  views  of 
things,  but  it  must  have  been  pretty  hard  on  you 
all  the  same." 

"  Wa'al,  yes,"  said  David,  "  I  guess  that's  so. 
Her  health  wa'n't  jes'  right,  an'  she  showed  it 
in  her  looks.  I  noticed  that  she'd  pined  an' 
pindled  some,  but  I  thought  the'  was  some  natu 
ral  criss-crossedniss  mixed  up  into  it  too.  But 
I  tried  to  make  allow'nces  an'  the  best  o'  things, 
an'  git  along  's  well  's  I  could;  but  things  kind 
o'  got  wuss  an'  wuss.  I  told  ye  that  she  begun 
to  have  notions  about  me,  an'  't  ain't  hardly  nec'- 
sary  to  say  what  shape  they  took,  an'  after  a 
while,  mebbe  a  year  'n  a  half,  she  got  so  't  she 
wa'n't  satisfied  to  know  where  I  was  nights — she 
wanted  to  know  where  I  was  daytimes.  Kind  o' 


DAVID   HARUM,  32  $• 

makes  me  laugh  now,"  he  observed,  "  it  seems 
so  redic'lous;  but  it  wa'n't  no  laughin'  matter 
then.  If  I  looked  out  o'  winder  she'd  hint  it  up 
to  me  that  I  was  watchin'  some  woman.  She 
grudged  me  even  to  look  at  a  picture  paper;  an* 
one  day  when  we  happened  to  be  walkin'  to 
gether  she  showed  feelin'  about  one  o'  them 
wooden  Injun  women  outside  a  cigar  store." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Mr.  Harum,"  said  John, 
laughing. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David  with  a  short  laugh, 
"mebbe  I  did  stretch  that  a  little;  but  's  I  told 
ye,  she  wanted  to  know  where  I  was  daytimes 
well  's  nights,  an'  ev'ry  once  'n  a  while  she'd  turn 
up  at  my  bus'nis  place,  an'  if  I  wa'n't  there  she'd 
set  an'  wait  fer  me,  an'  I'd  either  have  to  go 
home  with  her  or  have  it  out  in  the  office.  I 
don't  mean  to  say  that  all  the  sort  of  thing  I'm 
tellin'  ye  of  kep'  up  all  the  time.  It  kind  o'  run 
in  streaks;  but  the  streaks  kep'  comin'  oftener 
an'  oftener,  an'  you  couldn't  never  tell  when 
the'  was  goin'  to  appear.  Matters  'd  go  along 
putty  well  fer  a  while,  an'  then,  all  of  a  sudden, 
an'  fer  nothin'  't  I  could  see,  the'  'd  come  on  a 
thunder  shower  'fore  you  c'd  git  in  out  o'  the 
wet." 

"  Singular,"  said  John  thoughtfully. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  David.  "Wa'al,  it  come 
along  to  the  second  spring,  'bout  the  first  of  May. 
She'd  ben  more  like  folks  fer  about  a  week  mebbe 
'n  she  had  fer  a  long  spell,  an'  I  begun  to  chirk 
up  some.  I  don't  remember  jest  how  I  got  the 
idee,  but  f'm  somethin'  she  let  drop  I  gathered 
that  she  was  thinkin'  of  havin'  a  new  bunnit.  I 
will  say  this  for  her,"  remarked  David,  "  that  she 
was  an  economical  woman,  an'  never  spent  no 


326 


DAVID   HARUM. 


money  jest  fer  the  sake  o'  spendin'  it.  Wa'al, 
we'd  got  along  so  nice  fer  a  while  that  I  felt 
more  'n  usual  like  pleasin'  her,  an'  I  allowed  to 
myself  that  if  she  wanted  a  new  bunnit,  money 
shouldn't  stand  in  the  way,  an'  I  set  out  to  give 
her  a  supprise." 

They  had  reached  the  level  at  the  top  of  the 
long  hill  and  the  horses  had  broken  into  a  trot, 
when  Mr.  Harum's  narrative  was  interrupted  and 
his  equanimity  upset  by  the  onslaught  of  an  ex 
cessively  shrill,  active,  and  conscientious  dog  of 
the  "  yellow  "  variety,  which  barked  and  sprang 
about  in  front  of  the  mares  with  such  frantic  as 
siduity  as  at  last  to  communicate  enough  of  its 
excitement  to  them  to  cause  them  to  bolt  forward 
on  a  run,  passing  the  yellow  nuisance,  which, 
with  the  facility  of  long  practice,  dodged  the  cut 
which  David  made  at  it  in  passing.  It  was  with 
some  little  trouble  that  the  horses  were  brought 
back  to  a  sober  pace. 

"  Dum  that  dum'd  dog!"  exclaimed  David 
with  fervor,  looking  back  to  where  the  object  of 
his  execrations  was  still  discharging  convulsive 
yelps  at  the  retreating  vehicle,  "  I'd  give  a  five- 
dollar  note  to  git  one  good  lick  at  him.  I'd 
make  him  holler  '  pen-an'-ink '  once!  Why  any 
body's  willin'  to  have  such  a  dum'd,  wuthless, 
pestiferous  varmint  as  that  'round  's  more  'n  I 
c'n  understand.  I'll  bet  that  the  days  they  churn, 
that  critter,  unless  they  ketch  him  an'  tie  him 
up  the  night  before,  '11  be  under  the  barn  all  day, 
an'  he's  jest  blowed  off  steam  enough  to  run  a 
dog  churn  a  hull  forenoon." 

Whether  or  not  the  episode  of  the  dog  had 
diverted  Mr.  Harum's  mind  from  his  previous 
topic,  he  did  not  resume  it  until  John  ventured 


DAVID   HARUM. 


to  remind  him  of  it,  with  "  You  were  saying 
something  about  the  surprise  for  your  wife." 

"  That's  so,"  said  David.     u  Yes,  wa'al,  when 
I  went  home  that  night  I  stopped  into  a  mil'nery 
store,  an'  after  I'd  stood  'round  a  minute,  a  girl 
come  up  an'  ast  me  if  she  c'd  show  me  any 
thin'. 

"  '  I  want  to  buy  a  bunnit/  I  says,  an7  she 

kind  o'  laughed.     *  No/  I  says,  '  it  ain't  fer  me, 

it's  fer  a  lady,'  I  says;  an'  then  we  both  laughed. 

'  What  sort  of  a  bunnit  do  you  want? '  she 

says. 

"  '  Wa'al,  I  dunno/  I  says,  '  this  is  the  fust 
time  I  ever  done  anythin'  in  the  bunnit  line.'  So 
she  went  over  to  a  glass  case  an'  took  one  out 
an'  held  it  up,  turnin'  it  'round  on  her  hand. 

"  '  Wa'al,'  I  says,  '  I  guess  it's  putty  enough 
fur  's  it  goes,  but  the'  don't  seem  to  be  much  of 
anythin'  to  it.  Hain't  you  got  somethin'  a  little  bit 
bigger  an' ' 

'  *  Showier?  '  she  says.  '  How  is  this?  '  she 
says,  doin'  the  same  trick  with  another. 

"  '  Wa'al,'  I  says,  '  that  looks  more  like  it,  but 
I  had  an  idee  that  the  A  i,  trible-extry  fine  ar 
ticle  had  more  traps  on't,  an'  most  any  one  might 
have  on  either  one  o'  them  you've  showed  me  an' 
not  attrac'  no  attention  at  all.  You  needn't  mind 
expense,'  I  says. 

; '  Oh,  very  well,'  she  says,  '  I  guess  I  know 
what  you  want,'  an'  goes  over  to  another  case  an' 
fetches  out  another  bunnit  twice  as  big  as  either 
the  others,  an'  with  more  notions  on't  than  you 
c'd  shake  a  stick  at — flowers,  an'  gard'n  stuff,  an' 
fruit,  an'  glass  beads,  an'  feathers,  an'  all  that,  till 
you  couldn't  see  what  they  was  fixed  on  to.  She 
took  holt  on't  with  both  hands,  the  girl  did,  an' 


328 


DAVID    HARUIVL 


put  it  onto  her  head,  an'  kind  o'  smiled  an'  turned 
'round  slow  so  't  I  c'd  git  a  gen'ral  view  on't 

"'  Style  all  right?'  I  says. 

"  '  The  very  best  of  its  kind,'  she  says. 

"  '  How  'bout  the  kind? '  I  says. 

"  '  The  very  best  of  its  style,'  she  says." 

John  laughed  outright.  David  looked  at  him 
for  a  moment  with  a  doubtful  grin. 

"  She  was  a  slick  one,  wa'n't  she?"  he  said. 
"  What  a  hoss  trader  she  would  Y  made.  I 
didn't  ketch  on  at  the  time,  but  I  rec'lected  after 
ward.  Wa'al,"  he  resumed,  after  this  brief  di 
gression,  "  '  how  much  is  it?'  I  says. 

"  '  Fifteen  dollars,'  she  says. 

"  '  What?  '  I  says.  '  Scat  my !  I  c'd  buy 

head  rigging  enough  to  last  me  ten  years  fer 
that.' 

"  '  We  couldn't  sell  it  for  less,'  she  says. 

"  '  S'posin'  the  lady  't  I'm  buyin'  it  fer  don't 
jest  like  it,'  I  says,  *  can  you  alter  it  or  swap 
somethin'  else  for  it? ' 

" '  Cert'nly,  within  a  reasonable  time,'  she 
says. 

"  *  Wa'al,  all  right,'  I  says,  '  do  her  up.'  An' 
so  she  wrapped  the  thing  'round  with  soft  paper 
an'  put  it  in  a  box,  an'  I  paid  for't  an'  moseyed 
along  up  home,  feelin'  that  ev'ry  man,  woman, 
an'  child  had  their  eyes  on  my  parcel,  but  thinkin' 
how  tickled  my  wife  would  be." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE  road  they  were  on  was  a  favorite  drive 
with  the  two  men,  and  at  the  point  where  they 
had  now  arrived  David  always  halted  for  a  look 
back  and  down  upon  the  scene  below  them — to 
the  south,  beyond  the  intervening  fields,  bright 
with  maturing  crops,  lay  the  village;  to  the  west 
the  blue  lake,  winding  its  length  like  a  broad 
river,  and  the  river  itself  a  silver  ribbon,  till  it 
was  lost  beneath  the  southern  hills. 

Neither  spoke.  For  a  few  minutes  John  took 
in  the  scene  with  the  pleasure  it  always  afforded 
him,  and  then  glanced  at  his  companion,  who 
usually  had  some  comment  to  make  upon  any 
thing  which  stirred  his  admiration  or  interest. 
He  was  gazing,  not  at  the  landscape,  but  appar 
ently  at  the  top  of  the  dashboard.  "  Ho,  hum," 
he  said,  straightening  the  reins,  with  a  "  elk  "  to 
the  horses,  and  they  drove  along  for  a  while  in 
silence — so  long,  in  fact,  that  our  friend,  while 
aware  that  the  elder  man  did  not  usually  aban 
don  a  topic  until  he  had  "  had  his  say  out,"  was 
moved  to  suggest  a  continuance  of  the  narra 
tive  which  had  been  rather  abruptly  broken  off, 
and  in  which  he  had  become  considerably  inter 
ested. 

"  Was  your  wife  pleased?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"  Where  was  I?  "  asked  the  other  in  return. 
22  329 


DAVID    HARUM. 


"  You  were  on  your  way  home  with  your 
purchase,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Mr.  Harum  resumed.  "  It  was  a 
little  after  tea  time  when  I  got  to  the  house,  an' 
I  thought  prob'ly  I'd  find  her  in  the  settin'  room 
waitin'  fer  me;  but  she  wa'n't,  an'  I  went  up 
to  the  bedroom  to  find  her,  feelin'  a  little  less 
sure  o'  things.  She  was  settin'  lookin'  out  o' 
winder  when  I  come  in,  an'  when  I  spoke  to  her 
she  didn't  give  me  no  answer  except  to  say,  look- 
in'  up  at  the  clock,  '  What's  kept  ye  like  this?  ' 

"  '  Little  matter  o'  bus'nis,'  I  says,  lookin'  as 
smilin'  's  I  knew  how,  an'  holdin'  the  box  be 
hind  me. 

"  '  What  you  got  there?  '  she  says,  slewin'  her 
head  'round  to  git  a  sight  at  it. 

"  '  Little  matter  o'  bus'nis,'  I  says  agin,  bring- 
in'  the  box  to  the  front  an'  feelin'  my  face  straight 
en  out  's  if  you'd  run  a  flat  iron  over  it.  She 
seen  the  name  on  the  paper. 

"  '  You  ben  spendin'  your  time  there,  have 
ye?'  she  says,  settin'  up  in  her  chair  an'  pointin' 
with  her  finger  at  the  box.  '  That's  where  you 
ben  the  last  half  hour,  hangin'  'round  with  them 
minxes  in  Mis'  Shoolbred's.  What's  in  that 
box?  '  she  says,  with  her  face  a-blazin'. 

"  '  Now,  Lizy,'  I  says,  '  I  wa'n't  there  ten  min 
utes  if  I  was  that,  an'  I  ben  buyin'  you  a  bunnit.' 

"  «  YOU  —  ben  —  buyin1  —  me  —  a  —  bunnit?  '  she 
says,  stif'nin'  up  stiffer  'n  a  stake. 

"  '  Yes,'  I  says,  '  I  heard  you  say  somethin' 
'bout  a  spring  bunnit,  an'  I  thought,  seein'  how 
economicle  you  was,  that  I'd  buy  you  a  nicer  one 
'n  mebbe  you'd  feel  like  yourself.  I  thought  it 
would  please  ye,'  I  says,  tryin'  to  rub  her  the 
right  way. 


DAVID   HARUM.  331 

" '  Let  me  see  it/  she  says,  in  a  voice  dryer  'n 
a  lime-burner's  hat,  pressin'  her  lips  together  an' 
reachin'  out  fer  the  box.  Wa'al,  sir,  she  snapped 
the  string  v/ith  a  jerk  an'  sent  the  cover  skimmin' 
across  the  room,  an'  then,  as  she  hauled  the  par 
cel  out  of  the  box,  she  got  up  onto  her  feet. 
Then  she  tore  the  paper  off  on't  an'  looked  at  it 
a  minute,  an'  then  took  it  'tween  her  thumb  an' 
finger,  like  you  hold  up  a  dead  rat  by  the  tail, 
an'  held  it  off  at  the  end  of  her  reach,  an'  looked 
it  all  over,  with  her  face  gettin'  even  redder  if  it 
could.  Fin'ly  she  says,  in  a  voice  'tween  a  whis 
per  'n  a  choke: 

"  '  What'd  you  pay  fer  the  thing? ' 

"  '  Fifteen  dollars,'  I  says. 

"  '  Fifteen  dollars?  '  she  says. 

"'Yes,'  I  says,  'don't  ye  like  it?'  Wa'al," 
said  David,  "  she  never  said  a  word.  She  drawed 
in  her  arm  an'  took  holt  of  the  bunnit  with  her 
left  hand,  an'  fust  she  pulled  off  one  thing  an' 
dropped  it  on  the  floor,  fur  off  as  she  c'd  reach, 
an'  then  another,  an'  then  another,  an'  then,  by 
gum!  she  went  at  it  with  both  hands  jest  as  fast 
as  she  could  work  'em,  an'  in  less  time  'n  I'm 
tellin'  it  to  ye  she  picked  the  thing  cleaner  'n 
any  chicken  you  ever  see,  an'  when  she  got  down 
to  the  carkis  she  squeezed  it  up  between  her  two 
hands,  give  it  a  wring  an'  a  twist  like  it  was  a 
wet  dish  towel,  an'  flung  it  slap  in  my  face. 
Then  she  made  a  half  turn,  throwin'  back  her  head 
an'  grabbin'  into  her  hair,  an'  give  the  awfullest 
screechin'  laugh — one  screech  after  another  that 
you  c'd  'a'  heard  a  mile — an'  then  throwed  her 
self  face  down  on  the  bed,  screamin'  an'  kickin'. 
Wa'al,  sir,  if  I  wa'n't  at  my  wits'  end,  you  c'n 
have  my  watch  an'  chain. 


DAVID   HARUM. 


"  She  wouldn't  let  me  touch  her  no  way,  but, 
as  luck  had  it,  it  was  one  o'  the  times  when  we 
had  a  hired  girl,  an'  hearin'  the  noise  she  come 
gallopin'  up  the  stairs.  She  wa'n't  a  young  girl, 
an'  she  had  a  face  humbly  'nough  to  keep  her 
awake  nights,  but  she  had  some  sense,  an'  — 
'  You'd  bether  run  fer  the  docther,'  she  says, 
when  she  see  the  state  my  wife  was  in.  You  better 
believe  I  done  the  heat  of  my  life,"  said  David, 
"  an'  more  luck,  the  doctor  was  home  an'  jest 
finishin'  his  tea.  His  house  an'  office  wa'n't  but 
two  three  blocks  off,  an'  in  about  a  few  minutes 
me  an'  him  an'  his  bag  was  leggin'  it  fer  my 
house,  though  I  noticed  he  didn't  seem  to  be  'n 
as  much  of  a  twitter  's  I  was.  He  ast  me  more 
or  less  questions,  an'  jest  as  we  got  to  the  house 
he  says: 

"  '  Has  your  wife  had  anythin'  to  'larm  or 
shock  her  this  evenin'  ?  ' 

'Nothin'  't  I  know  on,'  I  says,  '  'cept  I 
bought  her  a  new  bunnit  that  didn't  seem  to 
come  quite  up  to  her  idees/  At  that,"  remarked 
Mr.  Harum,  "  he  give  me  a  funny  look,  an'  we 
went  in  an'  upstairs. 

"  The  hired  girl,"  he  proceeded,  "  had  got  her 
quieted  down  some,  but  when  we  went  in  she 
looked  up,  an'  seein'  me,  set  up  another  screech, 
an'  he  told  me  to  go  downstairs  an'  he'd  come 
down  putty  soon,  an'  after  a  while  he  did. 

"'Wa'al?'  I  says. 

"  '  She's  quiet  fer  the  present,'  he  says,  takin' 
a  pad  o'  paper  out  o'  his  pocket,  an'  writin'  on  it. 

"  '  Do  you  know  Mis'  Jones,  your  next-door 
neighbor?  '  he  says.  I  allowed  't  I  had  a  speak- 
in'  acquaintance  with  her. 

"  '  Wa'al/  he  says,  '  fust,  you  step  in  an'  tell 


DAVID   HARUM.  333 

her  I'm  here  an'  want  to  see  her,  and  ast  her  if 
she  won't  come  right  along;  an'  then  you  go 
down  to  my  office  an'  have  these  things  sent  up; 
an'  then/  he  says,  '  you  go  down  town  an'  send 
this ' — handin'  me  a  note  that  he'd  wrote  an'  put 
in  an  envelope — '  up  to  the  hospital — better  send 
it  up  with  a  hack,  or,  better  yet,  go  yourself,'  he 
says,  '  an'  hurry.  You  can't  be  no  use  here/  he 
says.  '  I'll  stay,  but  I  want  a  nurse  here  in  an 
hour,  an'  less  if  possible.'  I  was  putty  well 
scared,"  said  David,  "  by  all  that,  an'  I  says, 
'  Lord/  I  says,  '  is  she  as  bad  off  as  that?  What 
is  it  ails  her? ' 

"  *  Don't  you  know? '  says  the  doc,  givin'  me 
a  queer  look. 

"  '  No/  I  says,  '  she  hain't  ben  fust  rate  fer 
a  spell  back,  but  I  couldn't  git  nothin'  out  of  her 
what  was  the  matter,  an'  don't  know  what  per- 
tic'ler  thing  ails  her  now,  unless  it's  that  dum'd 
bunnit/  I  says. 

"  At  that  the  doctor  laughed  a  little,  kind  as 
if  he  couldn't  help  it. 

"  '  I  don't  think  that  was  hully  to  blame/  he 
says;  'may  have  hurried  matters  up  a  little — 
somethin'  that  was  liable  to  happen  any  time  in 
the  next  two  months/ 

"  '  You  don't  mean  it?  '  I  says. 

"  '  Yes/  he  says.  '  Now  you  git  out  as  fast 
as  you  can.  Wait  a  minute/  he  says.  '  How  old 
is  your  wife?' 

"  '  F'm  what  she  told  me  'fore  we  was  mar 
ried/  I  says,  '  she's  thirty-one/ 

"  '  Oh ! '  he  says,  raisin'  his  eyebrows.  '  All 
right;  hurry  up,  now/ 

"  I  dusted  around  putty  lively,  an'  inside  of 
aa  hour  was  back  with  the  nurse,  an 


334 


DAVID   HARUM. 


after  we  got  inside  the  door "  David  paused 

thoughtfully  for  a  moment  and  then,  lowering  his 
tone  a  little,  "  jest  as  we  got  inside  the  front 
door,  a  door  upstairs  opened  an'  I  heard  a  little 
'  Waa !  waa ! '  like  it  was  the  leetlist  kind  of  a 
new  lamb — an'  I  tell  you,"  said  David,  with  a  little 
quaver  in  his  voice,  and  looking  straight  over  the 
off  horse's  ears,  "  nothin'  't  I  ever  heard  before 
nor  since  ever  fetched  me,  right  where  I  lived, 
as  that  did.  The  nurse,  she  made  a  dive  fer  the 
stairs,  wavin'  me  back  with  her  hand,  an'  I — wa'al 
— I  went  into  the  settin'  room,  an — wa'al — ne' 
mind. 

"  I  dunno  how  long  I  set  there  list'nin'  to  'em 
movin'  'round  overhead,  an'  wonderin'  what  was 
goin'  on;  but  fin'ly  I  heard  a  step  on  the  stair 
an'  I  went  out  into  the  entry,  an'  it  was  Mis' 
Jones.  '  How  be  they?'  I  says. 

"  *  We  don't  quite  know  yet,'  she  says.  '  The 
little  boy  is  a  nice  formed  little  feller,'  she  says, 
'  an'  them  childern  very  often  grow  up,  but  he  is 
very  little,1  she  says. 

"  '  An'  how  'bout  my  wife? '  I  says. 

" '  Wa'al,'  she  says,  '  we  don't  know  jes'  yet, 
but  she  is  quiet  now,  an'  we'll  hope  fer  the  best. 
If  you  want  me,'  she  says,  '  I'll  come  any  time, 
night  or  day,  but  I  must  go  now.  The  doctor 
will  stay  all  night,  an'  the  nurse  will  stay  till  you 
c'n  git  some  one  to  take  her  place,'  an'  she  went 
home, an',"  declared  David,  "you've  hearn  tell  of 
the  '  salt  of  the  earth,'  an'  if  that  woman  wa'n't 
more  on't  than  a  hoss  c'n  draw  down  hill,  the' 
ain't  no  such  thing." 

"Did  they  live?"  asked  John  after  a  brief 
silence,  conscious  of  the  bluntness  of  his  ques 
tion,  but  curious  as  to  the  sequel. 


DAVID    HARUM. 

"  The  child  did,"  replied  David;  "  not  to  grow 
up,  but  till  he  was  'twixt  six  an'  seven;  but  my 
wife  never  left  her  bed,  though  she  lived  three 
four  weeks.  She  never  seemed  to  take  no  in- 
t'rist  in  the  little  feller,  nor  nothin'  else  much; 
but  one  day — it  was  Sunday,  long  to  the  last — • 
she  seemed  a  little  more  chipper  'n  usual.  I  was 
settin'  with  her,  an'  I  said  to  her  how  much  better 
she  seemed  to  be,  tryin'  to  chirk  her  up. 
'  No/  she  says,  '  I  ain't  goin'  to  live.' 

"  '  Don't  ye  say  that,'  I  says. 
: '  No,'  she  says,  '  I  ain't,  an'  I  don't  care/ 

"  I  didn't  know  jest  what  to  say,  an'  she  spoke 
agin: 

; '  I  want  to  tell  you,  Dave/  she  says,  '  that 
you've  ben  good  an'  kind  to  me/ 

"  '  I've  tried  to/  I  says,  '  an'  Lizy/  I  says,  '  I'll 
never  fergive  myself  about  that  bunnit,  long  's  I 
live.' 

"'That  hadn't  really  nothin'  to  do  with  it/ 
she  says,  *  an'  you  meant  all  right,  though/  she 
says,  almost  in  a  whisper,  an'  the'  came  across 
her  face,  not  a  smile  exac'ly,  but  somethin'  like 
a  little  riffle  on  a  piece  o'  still  water,  *  that  bunnit 
was  enough  to  kill  most  anybody/  " 


CHAPTER  XL. 

JOHN  leaned  out  of  the  buggy  and  looked 
back  along  the  road,  as  if  deeply  interested  in 
observing  something  which  had  attracted  his  at 
tention,  and  David's  face  worked  oddly  for  a 
moment. 

Turning  south  in  the  direction  of  the  village, 
they  began  the  descent  of  a  steep  hill,  and  Mr. 
Harum,  careful  of  loose  stones,  gave  all  his  at 
tention  to  his  driving.  Our  friend,  respecting  his 
vigilance,  forebore  to  say  anything  which  might 
distract  his  attention  until  they  reached  level 
ground,  and  then,  "  You  never  married  again?" 
he  queried. 

"  No,"  was  the  reply.  "  My  matrymonial  ex 
perience  was  *  brief  an'  to  the  p'int,'  as  the  sav 
in'  is." 

"  And  yet,"  urged  John,  "  you  were  a  young 
man,  and  I  should  have  supposed " 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  breaking  in  and  emit 
ting  his  chuckling  laugh,  "  I  allow  't  mebbe  I 
sometimes  thought  on't,  an'  once,  about  ten  year 
after  what  I  ben  tellin'  ye,  I  putty  much  made  up 
mv  mind  to  try  another  hitch-up.  The'  was  a 
woman  that  I  seen  quite  a  good  deal  of,  an'  liked 
putty  well,  an'  I  had  some  grounds  fer  thinkin' 
't  she  wouldn't  show  me  the  door  if  I  was  to  ask 
her.  In  fact,  I  made  up  my  mind  I  would  take 
336 


DAVID   HARUM.  337. 

the  chances,  an'  one  night  I  put  on  my  best  bib 
an'  tucker  an'  started  fer  her  house.  I  had  to  go 
'cross  the  town  to  where  she  lived,  an'  the  farther 
I  walked  the  fiercer  I  got — havin'  made  up  my 
mind — so  't  putty  soon  I  was  travelin'  's  if  I 
was  'fraid  some  other  feller'd  git  there  'head  o' 
me.  Wa'al,  it  was  Sat'day  night,  an'  the  stores 
was  all  open,  an'  the  streets  was  full  o'  people,  an' 
I  had  to  pull  up  in  the  crowd  a  little,  an'  I  don't 
know  how  it  happened  in  pertic'ler,  but  fust  thing 
I  knew  I  run  slap  into  a  woman  with  a  ban'box, 
an'  when  I  looked  'round,  there  was  a  mil'nery 
store  in  full  blast  an'  winders  full  o'  bunnits. 
Wa'al,  sir,  do  you  know  what  I  done?  Ye  don't. 
Wa'al,  the'  was  a  hoss  car  passin'  that  run  three 
mile  out  in  the  country  in  a  diff'rent  direction 
f'm  where  I  started  fer,  an'  I  up  an'  got  onto 
that  car,  an'  rode  the  length  o'  that  road,  an'  got 
off  an'  walked  back — an'  I  never  went  near  her 
house  f'm  that  day  to  this,  an'  that,"  said  David, 
"  was  the  nearest  I  ever  come  to  havin'  another 
pardner  to  my  joys  an'  sorro's." 

"  That  was  pretty  near,  though,"  said  John, 
laughing. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  "  mebbe  Prov'dence 
might  'a'  had  some  other  plan  fer  stoppin'  me 
'fore  I  smashed  the  hull  rig,  if  I  hadn't  run  into 
the  mil'nery  shop,  but  as  it  was,  that  fetched  me 
to  a  standstill,  an'  I  never  started  to  run  agin." 

They  drove  on  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence, 
which  John  broke  at  last  by  saying,  "  I  have  been 
wondering  how  you  got  on  after  your  wife  died 
and  left  you  with  a  little  child." 

"  That  was  where  Mis'  Jones  come  in,"  said 
David.  "  Of  course  I  got  the  best  nurse  I  could, 
an'  Mis'  Jones  'd  run  in  two  three  times  ev'ry  day 
23 


338 


DAVID   HARUM. 


an'  see  't  things  was  goin'  on  as  right  's  they 
could;  but  it  come  on  that  I  had  to  be  away  f'm 
home  a  good  deal,  an'  fin'ly,  come  fall,  I  got  the 
Joneses  to  move  into  a  bigger  house,  where  I 
could  have  a  room,  an'  fixed  it  up  with  Mis'  Jones 
to  take  charge  o'  the  little  feller  right  along. 
She  hadn't  but  one  child,  a  girl  of  about  thirteen, 
an'  had  lost  two  little  ones,  an'  so  between  havin' 
took  to  my  little  mite  of  a  thing  f'm  the  fust,  an* 
my  makin'  it  wuth  her  while,  she  was  willin',  an' 
we  went  on  that  way  till — the'  wa'n't  no  further 
occasion  fur  's  he  was  concerned,  though  I  lived 
with  them  a  spell  longer  when  I  was  at  home, 
which  wa'n't  very  often,  an'  after  he  died  I  was 
gone  fer  a  good  while.  But  before  that  time, 
when  I  was  at  home,  I  had  him  with  me  all  the 
time  I  could  manage.  With  good  care  he'd 
growed  up  nice  an'  bright,  an'  as  big  as  the  aver 
age,  an'  smarter  'n  a  steel  trap.  He  liked  bein' 
with  me  better  'n  anybody  else,  and  when  I  c'd 
manage  to  have  him  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  him 
out  o'  my  sight.  Wa'al,  as  I  told  you,  he  got  to 
be  most  seven  year  old.  I'd  had  to  go  out  to  Chi 
cago,  an'  one  day  I  got  a  telegraph  savin'  he  was 
putty  sick — an'  I  took  the  fust  train  East.  It 
was  'long  in  March,  an'  we  had  a  breakdown,  an' 
run  into  an  awful  snowstorm,  an'  one  thing  an 
other,  an'  I  lost  twelve  or  fifteen  hours.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  them  two  days  was  longer  'n 
my  hull  life,  but  I  fin'ly  did  git  home  about  nine 
o'clock  in  the  mornin'.  When  I  got  to  the  house 
Mis'  Jones  was  on  the  lookout  fer  me,  an'  the 
door  opened  as  I  run  up  the  stoop,  an'  I  see  by 
her  face  that  I  was  too  late.  '  Oh,  David,  Da 
vid!  '  she  says  (she'd  never  called  me  David  be 
fore),  puttin'  her  hands  on  my  shoulders. 


DAVID    HARUM. 

"'  When?  'I  says. 
'  'Bout  midnight,'  she  says. 

"  '  Did  he  suffer  much?'  I  says. 

"'No,'  she  says,  'I  don't  think  so;  but  he 
was  out  of  his  head  most  of  the  time  after  the 
fust  day,  an'  I  guess  all  the  time  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours.' 

"  '  Do  you  think  he'd  'a'  knowed  me? '  I  says. 
'Did  he  say  anythin'?'  an'  at  that,"  said  David, 
"  she  looked  at  me.  She  wa'n't  cryin'  when  I 
come  in,  though  she  had  ben;  but  at  that  her  face 
all  broke  up.  '  I  don't  know,'  she  says.  '  He 
kept  sayin'  things,  an'  'bout  all  we  could  under 
stand  was  "  Daddy,  daddy," :  an'  then  she 
throwed  her  apern  over  her  face,  an' " 

David  tipped  his  hat  a  little  farther  over  his 
eyes,  though,  like  many  if  not  most  "  horsey  " 
men,  he  usually  wore  it  rather  far  down,  and 
leaning  over,  twirled  the  whip  in  the  socket  be 
tween  his  two  fingers  and  thumb.  John  studied 
the  stitched  ornamentation  of  the  dashboard  until 
the  reins  were  pushed  into  his  hands.  But  it 
was  not  for  long.  David  straightened  himself, 
and,  without  turning  his  head,  resumed  them  as 
if  that  were  a  matter  of  course. 

"  Day  after  the  fun'ral,"  he  went  on,  "  I  says 
to  Mis'  Jones,  '  I'm  goin'  back  out  West,'  I  says, 
4  an'  I  can't  say  how  long  I  shall  be  gone — long 
enough,  anyway/  I  says,  '  to  git  it  into  my  head 
that  when  I  come  back  the'  won't  be  no  little 
feller  to  jump  up  an'  'round  my  neck  when  I 
come  into  the  house;  but,  long  or  short,  I'll  come 
back  some  time,  an'  meanwhile,  as  fur  's  things 
between  you  an'  me  air,  they're  to  go  on  jest  the 
same,  an'  more  'n  that,  do  you  think  you'll  re 
member  him  some? '  I  says. 


340 


DAVID   HARUM. 


"  '  As  long  as  I  live/  she  says,  '  jes'  like  my 
own.' 

'  Wa'al,'  I  says,  '  long  's  you  remember  him, 
he'll  be,  in  a  way,  livin'  to  ye,  an'  as  long  's  that 
I  allow  to  pay  fer  his  keep  an'  tendin'  jes'  the 
same  as  I  have,  an','  I  says,  '  if  you  don't  let  me 
you  ain't  no  friend  o'  mine,  an'  you  ben  a  good 
one.'  Wa'al,  she  squimmidged  some,  but  I 
wouldn't  let  her  say  '  No.'  '  I've  'ranged  it  all 
with  my  pardner  an'  other  ways,'  I  says,  '  an' 
more  'n  that,  if  you  git  into  any  kind  of  a  scrape 
an'  I  don't  happen  to  be  got  at,  you  go  to  him 
an'  git  what  you  want.'  " 

"  I  hope  she  lived  and  prospered,"  said  John 
fervently. 

"  She  lived  twenty  year,"  said  David,  "  an'  I 
wish  she  was  livin'  now.  I  never  drawed  a  check 
on  her  account  without  feelin'  't  I  was  doin' 
somethin'  for  my  little  boy. 

"  The's  a  good  many  diff'rent  sorts  an'  kinds 
o'  sorro',"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "  that's  in  some 
ways  kind  o'  kin  to  each  other,  but  I  guess  losin' 
a  child  's  a  specie  by  itself.  Of  course  I  passed 
the  achin',  smartin'  point  years  ago,  but  it's  some- 
thin'  you  can't  fergit — that  is,  you  can't  help  feel- 
in'  about  it,  because  it  ain't  only  what  the  child 
was  to  you,  but  what  you  keep  thinkin'  he'd  V 
ben  growin'  more  an'  more  to  be  to  you.  When 
I  lost  my  little  boy  I  didn't  only  lose  him  as  he 
was,  but  I  ben  losin'  him  over  an'  agin  all  these 
years.  What  he'd  'a'  ben  when  he  was  so  old; 
an'  what  when  he'd  got  to  be  a  big  boy;  an' 
what  he'd  'a'  ben  when  he  went  mebbe  to  col- 
lidge;  an'  what  he'd  'a'  ben  afterward,  an'  up  to 
now.  Of  course  the  times  when  a  man  stuffs 
his  face  down  into  the  pillers  nights,  passes, 


DAVID   HARUM.  34! 

after  a  while;  but  while  the's  some  sorro's 
that  the  happenin'  o'  things  helps  ye  to  fergit, 
I  guess  the's  some  that  the  happenin'  o'  things 
keeps  ye  rememberin',  an'  losin'  a  child  's  one 
on  'em." 


CHAPTER  XLl. 

IT  was  the  latter  part  of  John's  fifth  winter 
in  Homeville.  The  business  of  the  office  had 
largely  increased.  The  new  manufactories  which 
had  been  established  did  their  banking  with  Mr. 
Harum,  and  the  older  concerns,  including  nearly 
all  the  merchants  in  the  village,  had  transferred 
their  accounts  from  Syrchester  banks  to  Da 
vid's.  The  callow  Hopkins  had  fledged  and 
developed  into  a  competent  all-'round  man,  able 
to  do  anything  in  the  office,  and  there  was  a  new 
"  skeezicks "  discharging  Peleg's  former  func 
tions.  Considerable  impetus  had  been  given  to 
the  business  of  the  town  by  the  new  road  whose 
rails  had  been  laid  the  previous  summer.  There 
had  been  a  strong  and  acrimonious  controversy 
over  the  route  which  the  road  should  take  into 
and  through  the  village.  There  was  the  party 
of  the  "  nabobs  "  (as  they  were  characterized  by 
Mr.  Harum)  and  their  following,  and  the  party 
of  the  "  village  people,"  and  the  former  had  car 
ried  their  point;  but  now  the  road  was  an  ac 
complished  fact,  and  most  of  the  bitterness  which 
had  been  engendered  had  died  away.  Yet  the 
struggle  was  still  matter  for  talk. 

."  Did  I  ever  tell  you,"  said  David,  as  he  and 

his  cashier  were  sitting  in  the  rear  room  of  the 

bank,    "  how    Lawyer    Staples    come    to    switch 

round  in  that  there  railroad  jangle  last  spring?" 

342 


DAVID   HARUM. 


343 


"  I  remember,"  said  John,  "  that  you  told  me 
he  had  deserted  his  party,  and  you  laughed  a  little 
at  the  time,  but  you  did  not  tell  me  how  it  came 
about." 

"  I  kind  o'  thought  I  told  ye,"  said  David. 

"  No,"  said  John,  "  I  am  quite  sure  you  did 
not." 

"  Wa'al,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  "  the'  was,  as  you 
know,  the  Tenaker-Rogers  crowd  wantin'  one 
thing,  an'  the  Purse-Babbit  lot  bound  to  have  the 
other,  an'  run  the  road  under  the  other  fellers' 
noses.  Staples  was  workin'  tooth  an'  nail  fer 
the  Purse  crowd,  an'  bein'  a  good  deal  of  a  poli 
tician,  he  was  helpin'  'em  a  good  deal.  In  fact, 
he  was  about  their  best  card.  I  wa'n't  takin' 
much  hand  in  the  matter  either  way,  though  my 
feelin's  was  with  the  Tenaker  party.  I  know  't 
would  come  to  a  point  where  some  money  'd 
prob'ly  have  to  be  used,  an'  I  made  up  my  mind 
I  wouldn't  do  much  drivin'  myself  unless  I  had 
to,  an'  not  then  till  the  last  quarter  of  the  heat. 
Wa'al,  it  got  to  lookin'  like  a  putty  even  thing. 
What  little  show  I  had  made  was  if  anythin'  on 
the  Purse  side.  One  day  Tenaker  come  in  to  see 
me  an'  wanted  to  know  flat-footed  which  side  the 
fence  I  was  on.  '  Wa'al,'  I  says,  '  I've  ben  settin' 
up  fer  shapes  to  be  kind  o'  on  the  fence,  but  I 
don't  mind  sayin',  betwixt  you  an'  me,  that  the 
bulk  o'  my  heft  is  a-saggin'  your  way;  but  I  hain't 
took  no  active  part,  an'  Purse  an'  them  thinks 
I'm  goin'  to  be  on  their  side  when  it  comes  to  a 
pinch.' 

'  Wa'al,'  he  says,  '  it's  goin'  to  be  a  putty 
close  thing,  an'  we're  goin'  to  need  all  the  help 
we  c'n  git.' 

" '  Wa'al,'  I  says,  '  I  guess  that's  so,  but  fer 


DAVID    HARUM. 


the  present  I  reckon  I  c'n  do  ye  more  good  by 
keepin'  in  the  shade.  Are  you  folks  prepared  to 
spend  a  little  money?  '  I  says. 

"  '  Yes/  he  says,  '  if  it  comes  to  that/ 

"  '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  it  putty  most  gen'ally  does 
come  to  that,   don't  it?     Now,   the's  one  feller 
that's  doin'  ye  more  harm  than  some  others/ 
'  You  mean  Staples?  '  he  says. 

"  '  Yes/  I  says,  k  I  mean  Staples.  He  don't 
really  care  a  hill  o'  white  beans  which  way  the 
road  comes  in,  but  he  thinks  he's  on  the  pop'lar 
side.  Now/  I  says,  '  I  don't  know  as  it'll  be 
nec'sary  to  use  money  with  him,  an'  I  don't  say 
't  you  could,  anyway,  but  mebbe  his  yawp  c'n  be 
stopped.  I'll  have  a  quiet  word  with  him/  I  says, 
*  an'  see  you  agin.'  So,"  continued  Mr.  Harum, 
"  the  next  night  the'  was  quite  a  lot  of  'em  in 
the  bar  of  the  new  hotel,  an'  Staples  was  ha- 
ranguin'  away  the  best  he  knowed  how,  an' 
bime  by  I  nodded  him  off  to  one  side,  an'  we 
went  across  the  hall  into  the  settin'  room. 

"  '  I  see  you  feel  putty  strong  'bout  this  bus'- 
nis/  I  says. 

"  *  Yes,  sir,  it's  a  matter  of  princ'ple  with  me/ 
he  says,  knockin'  his  fist  down  onto  the  table. 

M*How  does  the  outcome  on't  look  to  ye?' 
I  says.  '  Coin'  to  be  a  putty  close  race,  ain't  it?  ' 

"  '  Wa'al/  he  says,  '  'tween  you  an'  me,  I 
reckon  it  is/ 

"  '  That's  the  way  it  looks  to  me/  I  says,  '  an' 
more'n  that,  the  other  fellers  are  ready  to  spend 
some  money  at  a  pinch.' 

'  They  be,  be  they?  '  he  says. 

"  '  Yes,  sir/  I  says,  '  an'  we've  got  to  meet  'em 
halfway.  Now/  I  says,  takin'  a  paper  out  o'  my 
pocket,  'what  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  is  this: 


DAVID   HARUM.  34$ 

pYou  ben  ruther  more  prom'nent  in  this  matter 
than  most  anybody — fur's  talkin'  goes — but  I'm 
consid'ably  int'risted.  Trie's  got  to  be  some 
money  raised,  an'  I'm  ready/  I  says,  '  to  put 
down  as  much  as  you  be  up  to  a  couple  o'  hun- 
derd,  an'  I'll  take  the  paper  'round  to  the  rest; 
but/  I  says,  unfoldin'  it,  *  I  think  you'd  ought 
to  head  the  list,  an'  I'll  come  next.'  Wa'al,"  said 
David  with  a  chuckle  and  a  shake  of  the  head, 
"  you'd  ought  to  have  seen  his  jaw  go  down. 
He  wriggled  'round  in  his  chair,  an'  looked  ten 
diff  rent  ways  fer  Sunday. 

'What  do  you  say?'  I  says,  lookin'  square 
at  him,  '  '11  you  make  it  a  couple  a  hunderd? ' 

"  '  Wa'al/  he  says,  '  I  guess  I  couldn't  go  's 
fur  's  that,  an'  I  wouldn't  like  to  head  the  list 
anyway/ 

"  '  All  right/  I  says,  '  I'll  head  it.  Will  you 
say  one-fifty?' 

"  '  No/  he  says,  pullin'  his  whiskers,  '  I  guess 
not/ 

"'A  hunderd?'  I  says,  an'  he  shook  his 
head. 

" '  Fifty/  I  says,  '  an'  I'll  go  a  hunderd/  an 
at  that  he  got  out  his  hank'chif  an'  blowed  his 
nose,  an'  took  his  time  to  it.  '  Wa'al/  I  says, 
'what  do  ye  say?' 

1  Wa'al/  he  says,  '  I  ain't  quite  prepared  to 
give  ye  'n  answer  to-night.  Fact  on't  is/  he 
says,  '  it  don't  make  a  cent's  wuth  o'  difFrence 
to  me  person'ly  which  way  the  dum'd  road  comes 
in,  an'  I  don't  jest  this  minute  see  why  I  should 
spend  any  money  in  it/ 

1  There's  the  principle  o'  the  thing/  I  says. 
'  Yes/  he  says,  gettin'  out  of  his  chair,  '  of 
course,  there's  the  princ'ple  of  the  thing,  an' — 


346  DAVID   HARUM. 

wa'al,  I'll  think  it  over  an'  see  you  agin/  he  says, 
lookin'  at  his  watch.     '  I  got  to  go  now/ 

"  Wa'al,  the  next  night,"  proceeded  Mr.  Ha- 
rum,  "  I  went  down  to  the  hotel  agin,  an'  the' 
was  about  the  same  crowd,  but  no  Staples.  The' 
wa'n't  much  goin'  on,  an'  Purse,  in  pertic'ler,  was 
lookin'  putty  down  in  the  mouth.  '  Where's 
Staples?'  I  says. 

'  Wa'al/  says  Purse,  '  he  said  mebbe  he'd 
come  to-night,  an'  mebbe  he  couldn't.  Said  it 
wouldn't  make  much  diff'rence;  an'  anyhow  he 
was  goin'  out  o'  town  up  to  Syrchester  fer  a  few 
days.  I  don't  know  what's  come  over  the  feller/ 
says  Purse.  '  I  told  him  the  time  was  gittin' 
short  an'  we'd  have  to  git  in  our  best  licks,  an' 
he  said  he  guessed  he'd  done  about  all 't  he  could, 
an'  in  fact/  says  Purse,  '  he  seemed  to  'a'  lost 
int'rist  in  the  hull  thing/  " 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  John  asked. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David  with  a  grin,  "  Purse 
went  on  to  allow  't  he  guessed  somebody's  pock- 
etbook  had  ben  talkin',  but  I  didn't  say  much  of 
anythin',  an'  putty  soon  come  away.  Two  three 
days  after,"  he  continued,  "  I  see  Tenaker  agin. 
'  I  hear  Staples  has  gone  out  o'  town/  he  says, 
'  an'  I  hear,  too/  he  says,  '  that  he's  kind  o' 
soured  on  the  hull  thing — didn't  care  much  how 
it  did  come  out/ 

*  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  when  he  comes  back  you 
c'n  use  your  own  judgment  about  havin'  a  little 
{interview  with  him.  Mebbe  somethin'  's  made 
him  think  the's  two  sides  to  this  thing.  But 
anyway/  I  says,  '  I  guess  he  won't  do  no  more 
hollerin'/ 

"  '  How's  that? '  says  Tenaker. 

" '  Wa'al/  I  says,  '  I  guess  I'll  have  to  tell  ye 


DAVID    HARUM. 

a  little  story.  Mebbe  you've  heard  it  before,  but 
it  seems  to  be  to  the  point.  Once  on  a  time/ 
I  says,  '  the'  was  a  big  church  meetin'  that  had 
lasted  three  days,  an'  the  last  evenin'  the'  was 
consid'able  excitement.  The  prayin'  an'  singin' 
had  warmed  most  on  'em  up  putty  well,  an'  one 
o'  the  most  movin'  of  the  speakers  was  tellin'  'em 
what  was  what.  The'  was  a  big  crowd,  an'  while 
most  on  'em  come  to  be  edified,  the'  was  quite  a 
lot  in  the  back  part  of  the  place  that  was  ready  fer 
anythin'.  Wa'al,  it  happened  that  standin'  mixed 
up  in  that  lot  was  a  feller  named — we'll  call  him 
Smith,  to  be  sure  of  him — an'  Smith  was  jes* 
runnin'  over  with  power,  an'  ev'ry  little  while 
when  somethin'  the  speaker  said  touched  him  on 
the  funny  bone  he'd  out  with  an  "  A — men!  Yes, 
Lord !  "  in  a  voice  like  a  fact'ry  whistle.  Wa'al, 
after  a  little  the'  was  some  snickerin'  an'  gigglin' 
an'  scroughin'  an'  hustlin'  in  the  back  part,  an' 
even  some  of  the  serioustest  up  in  front  would 
kind  o'  smile,  an'  the  moderator  leaned  over  an' 
says  to  one  of  the  bretherin  on  the  platform, 
"  Brother  Jones,"  he  says,  "  can't  you  git  down 
to  the  back  of  the  hall  an'  say  somethin'  to  quiet 
Brother  Smith?  Smith's  a  good  man,  an'  a 
pious  man,"  the  moderator  says,  "  but  he's  very 
excitable,  an'  I'm  'fraid  he'll  git  the  boys  to 
goin'  back  there  an'  disturb  the  meetin'."  So 
Jones  he  worked  his  way  back  to  where  Smith 
was,  an'  the  moderator  watched  him  go  up  to 
Smith  and  jest  speak  to  him  'bout  ten  seconds; 
an'  after  that  Smith  never  peeped  once.  After 
the  meetin'  was  over,  the  moderator  says  to 
Jones,  "  Brother  Jones,"  he  says,  "  what  did  you 
say  to  Brother  Smith  to-night  that  shut  him  up 
so  quick?"  "I  ast  him  fer  a  dollar  for  For'n 


348 


DAVID   HARUM. 


Missions,"  says  Brother  Jones,  '  an',  wa'al/  I 
says  to  Tenaker,  '  that's  what  I  done  to  Sta 
ples.'  " 

"Did  Mr.  Tenaker  see  the  point?"  asked 
John,  laughing. 

"  He  laughed  a  little,"  said  David,  "  but  didn't 
quite  ketch  on  till  I  told  him  about  the  subscrip 
tion  paper,  an'  then  he  like  to  split." 

"  Suppose  Staples  had  taken  you  up,"  sug 
gested  John. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  "  I  didn't  think  I  was 
takin'  many  chances.  If,  in  the  fust  place,  I 
hadn't  knowed  Staples  as  well  's  I  did,  the  Smith 
fam'ly,  so  fur  's  my  experience  goes,  has  got 
more  members  'n  any  other  fam'ly  on  top  of  the 
earth."  At  this  point  a  boy  brought  in  a  tele 
gram.  David  opened  it,  gave  a  side  glance  at 
his  companion,  and,  taking  out  his  pocketbook, 
put  the  dispatch  therein. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE  next  morning  David  called  John  into 
the  rear  room.  "Busy?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  John.     "  Nothing  that  can't  wait." 

"  Set  down,"  said  Mr.  Harum,  drawing  a 
chair  to  the  fire.  He  looked  up  with  his  charac 
teristic  grin.  "  Ever  own  a  hog?  "  he  said. 

"  No,"  said  John,  smiling. 

"  Ever  feel  like  ownin'  one?  " 

"  I  don't  remember  ever  having  any  cravings 
in  that  direction." 

"  Like  pork?  "  asked  Mr.  Harum. 

"  In  moderation,"  was  the  reply.  David  pro 
duced  from  his  pocketbook  the  dispatch  received 
the  day  before  and  handed  it  to  the  young  man 
at  his  side.  "  Read^  that,"  he  said. 

John  looked  at  ft  and  handed  it  back. 

"  It  doesn't  convey  any  idea  to  my  mind,"  he 
said. 

"  What?  "  said  David,  "  you  don't  know  what 
'  Bangs  Galilee  '  means?  nor  who  '  Raisin  '  is?  " 

"  You'll  have  to  ask  me  an  easier  one,"  said 
John,  smiling. 

David  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then, 
"  How  much  money  have  you  got?  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,"  was  the  reply,  "  with  what  I  had  and 
what  I  have  saved  since  I  came  I  could  get  to 
gether  about  five  thousand  dollars,  I  think." 

349 


350 


DAVID   HARUM. 


"  Is  it  where  you  c'n  put  your  hands  on't?  " 

John  took  some  slips  of  paper  from  his  pock- 
etbook  and  handed  them  to  David. 

"  H'm,  h'm,"  said  the  latter.  "  Wa'al,  I  owe 
ye  quite  a  little  bunch  o'  money,  don't  I?  Forty- 
five  hunderd!  Wa'al!  Couldn't  you  'a'  done 
better  'n  to  keep  this  here  at  four  per  cent?  " 

"  Well,"  said  John,  "  perhaps  so,  and  perhaps 
not.  I  preferred  to  do  this  at  all  events." 

"  Thought  the  old  man  was  safe  anyway, 
didn't  ye?"  said  David  in  a  tone  which  showed 
that  he  was  highly  pleased. 

"  Yes,"  said  John. 

"Is  this  all?"  asked  David. 

"  There  is  some  interest  on  those  certificates, 
and  I  have  some  balance  in  my  account,"  was  the 
reply ;  "  and  then,  you  know,  I  have  some  very 
valuable  securities — a  beautiful  line  of  mining 
stocks,  and  that  promising  Pennsylvania  prop 
erty." 

At  the  mention  of  the  last-named  asset 
David  looked  at  him  for  an  instant  as  if  about  to 
speak,  but  if  so  he  changed  his  mind.  He  sat 
for  a  moment  fingering  the  yellow  paper  which 
carried  the  mystic  words.  Presently  he  said, 
opening  the  message  out,  "  That's  from  an  old 
friend  of  mine  out  to  Chicago.  He  come  from 
this  part  of  the  country,  an'  we  was  young  fellers 
together  thirty  years  ago.  I've  had  a  good  many 
deals  with  him  and  through  him,  an'  he  never 
give  me  a  wrong  steer,  fur  's  I  know.  That  is,  I 
never  done  as  he  told  me  without  comin'  out  all 
right,  though  he's  give  me  a  good  many  pointers 
I  never  did  nothin'  about.  Tain't  nec'sary  to 
name  no  names,  but '  Bangs  Galilee '  means  '  buy 
pork/  an'  as  I've  ben  watchin'  the  market  fer 


DAVID   HARUM. 


351 


quite  a  spell  myself,  an'  standard  pork  's  a  good 
deal  lower  'n  it  costs  to  pack  it,  I've  made  up  my 
mind  to  buy  a  few  thousan'  barrels  fer  fam'ly  use. 
It's  a  handy  thing  to  have  in  the  house,"  declared 
Mr.  Harum,  "  an'  I  thought  mebbe  it  wouldn't 
be  a  bad  thing  fer  you  to  have  a  little.  It  looks 
cheap  to  me,"  he  added,  "  an'  mebbe  bime-by 
what  you  don't  eat  you  c'n  sell." 

"  Well,"  said  John,  laughing,  "  you  see  me 
at  table  every  day  and  know  what  my  appetite 
is  like.  How  much  pork  do  you  think  I  could 
take  care  of?  " 

"  Wa'al,  at  the  present  price,"  said  David,  "  I 
think  about  four  thousan'  barrels  would  give  ye 
enough  to  eat  fer  a  spell,  an'  mebbe  leave  ye  a 
few  barrels  to  dispose  of  if  you  should  happen  to 
strike  a  feller  later  on  that  wanted  it  wuss  'n  you 
did." 

John  opened  his  eyes  a  little.  "  I  should 
only  have  a  margin  of  a  dollar  and  a  quarter/' 
he  said. 

"  Wa'al,  I've  got  a  notion  that  that'll  carry 
ye,"  said  David.  "  It  may  go  lower  'n  what  it  is 
now.  I  never  bought  anythin'  yet  that  didn't 
drop  some,  an'  I  guess  nobody  but  a  fool  ever 
did  buy  at  the  bottom  more'n  once;  but  I've 
had  an  idee  for  some  time  that  it  was  about 
bottom,  an'  this  here  telegraph  wouldn't  'a'  ben 
sent  if  the  feller  that  sent  it  didn't  think  so  too, 
an'  I've  had  some  other  cor'spondence  with 
him."  Mr.  Harum  paused  and  laughed  a  little. 

"  I  was  jest  thinkin',"  he  continued,  "  of  what 
the  Irishman  said  about  Stofford.  Never  ben 
there,  have  ye?  Wa'al,  it's  a  place  eight  nine 
mile  f'm  here,  an'  the  hills  'round  are  so  steep 
that  when  you're  goin'  up  you  c'n  look  right 


352 


DAVID   HARUM, 


back  under  the  buggy  by  jes'  leanin'  over  the 
edge  of  the  dash.  I  was  drivin'  'round  there 
once,  an'  I  met  an  Irishman  with  a  big  drove  o' 
hogs. 

"'Hello,  Pat!'  I  says,  '  where  'd  all  them 
hogs  come  from?' 

"  '  Stofford,'  he  says. 

" '  Wa'al,'  I  says,  '  I  wouldn't  'a'  thought  the' 
was  so  many  hogs  in  Stofford.' 

"'Oh,  be  gobs!'  he  says,  'sure  they're  all 
hogs  in  Stofford;'  an',"  declared  David,  "the 
bears  ben  sellin'  that  pork  up  in  Chicago  as  if  the 
hull  everlastin'  West  was  all  hogs." 

"  It's  very  tempting,"  said  John  thought 
fully. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  "  I  don't  want  to  tempt 
ye  exac'ly,  an'  certain  I  don't  want  to  urge  ye. 
The'  ain't  no  sure  things  but  death  an'  taxes,  as 
the  sayin'  is,  but  buyin'  pork  at  these  prices  is 
buyin'  somethin'  that's  got  value,  an'  you  can't 
wipe  it  out.  In  other  words,  it's  buyin'  a  war 
ranted  article  at  a  price  consid'ably  lower  'n  it 
c'n  be  produced  for,  an'  though  it  may  go  lower, 
if  a  man  c'n  stick,  it's  bound  to  level  up  in  the 
long  run." 

Our  friend  sat  for  some  minutes  apparently 
looking  into  the  fire,  but  he  was  not  conscious  of 
seeing  anything  at  all.  Finally  he  rose,  went 
over  to  Mr.  Harum's  desk,  figured  the  interest  on 
the  certificates  up  to  the  first  of  January,  in 
dorsed  them,  and  filling  up  a  check  for  the  bal 
ance  of  the  amount  in  question,  handed  the  check 
and  certificate  to  David. 

"Think  you'll  go  it,  eh?"  said  the  latter. 

"Yes,"  said  John;  "but  if  I  take  the  quan 
tity  you  suggest,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  remar- 


DAVID   HARUM.  353 

gin  the  trade  in  case  the  market  goes  below  a 
certain  point." 

"  I've  thought  of  that,"  replied  David,  "  an' 
was  goin'  to  say  to  you  that  I'd  carry  the  trade 
down  as  fur  as  your  money  would  go,  in  case 
more  margins  had  to  be  called." 

"  Very  well,"  said  John.  "  And  will  you  look 
after  the  whole  matter  for  me?  " 

"  All  right,"  said  David. 

John  thanked  him  and  returned  to  the  front 
room. 

There  were  times  in  the  months  which  fol 
lowed  when  our  friend  had  reason  to  wish  that  all 
swine  had  perished  with  those  whom  Shylock 
said  "  your  prophet  the  Nazarite  conjured  the 
devil  into; "  and  the  news  of  the  world  in  general 
was  of  secondary  importance  compared  with  the 
market  reports.  After  the  purchase  pork  dropped 
off  a  little,  and  hung  about  the  lower  figure  for 
some  time.  Then  it  began  to  advance  by  de 
grees  until  the  quotation  was  a  dollar  above  the 
purchase  price. 

John's  impulse  was  to  sell,  but  David  made 
no  sign.  The  market  held  firm  for  a  while,  even 
going  a  little  higher.  Then  it  began  to  drop 
rather  more  rapidly  than  it  had  advanced,  to 
about  what  the  pork  had  cost,  and  for  a  long  pe 
riod  fluctuated  only  a  few  cents  one  way  or  the 
other.  This  was  followed  by  a  steady  decline  to 
the  extent  of  half-a-dollar,  and,  as  the  reports 
came,  it  "  looked  like  going  lower,"  which  it  did. 
In  fact,  there  came  a  day  when  it  was  so  "  low," 
and  so  much  more  "  looked  like  going  lower n 
than  ever  (as  such  things  usually  do  when  the 
"  bottom "  is  pretty  nearly  reached),  that  our 


354  DAVID   HARUM. 

friend  had  not  the  courage  to  examine  the  market 
reports  for  the  next  two  days,  and  simply  tried 
to  keep  the  subject  out  of  his  mind.  On  the 
morning  of  the  third  day  the  Syrchester  paper 
was  brought  in  about  ten  o'clock,  as  usual,  and 
laid  on  Mr.  Harum's  desk.  John  shivered  a 
little,  and  for  some  time  refrained  from  looking 
at  it.  At  last,  more  by  impulse  than  intention, 
he  went  into  the  back  room  and  glanced  at  the 
first  page  without  taking  the  paper  in  his  hands. 
One  of  the  press  dispatches  was  headed :  "  Great 
Excitement  on  Chicago  Board  of  Trade:  Pork 
Market  reported  Cornered:  Bears  on  the  Run," 
and  more  of  the  same  sort,  which  struck  our 
friend  as  being  the  most  profitable,  instructive, 
and  delightful  literature  that  he  had  ever  come 
across.  David  had  been  in  Syrchester  the  two 
days  previous,  returning  the  evening  before. 
Just  then  he  came  into  the  office,  and  John 
handed  him  the  paper. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  said,  holding  it  off  at  arm's 
length,  and  then  putting  on  his  glasses,  "  them 
fellers  that  thought  they  was  all  hogs  up  West, 
are  havin'  a  change  of  heart,  are  they?  I  reck 
oned  they  would  'fore  they  got  through  with  it. 
It's  ben  ruther  a  long  pull,  though,  eh?  "  he  said, 
looking  at  John  with  a  grin. 

"  Yes,"  said  our  friend,  with  a  slight  shrug  of 
the  shoulders. 

"  Things  looked  ruther  colicky  the  last  two 
three  days,  eh?"  suggested  David.  "Did  you 
think  '  the  jig  was  up  an'  the  monkey  was  in  the 
box?'" 

"  Rather,"  said  John.  "  The  fact  is,"  he  ad 
mitted,  "  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  for  a  few  days 
back  I  haven't  looked  at  a  quotation.  I  suppose 


DAVID   HARUM.  355 

you  must  have  carried  me  to  some  extent.  How 
much  was  it?  " 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David,  "  I  kept  the  trade  mar 
gined,  of  course,  an'  if  we'd  sold  out  at  the  bot 
tom  you'd  have  owed  me  somewhere  along  a 
thousan'  or  fifteen  hunderd;  but,"  he  added,  "  it 
was  only  in  the  slump,  an'  didn't  last  long,  an' 
anyway  I  cal'lated  to  carry  that  pork  to  where  it 
would  'a'  ketched  fire.  I  wa'n't  worried  none, 
an'  you  didn't  let  on  to  be,  an'  so  I  didn't  say 
anythin'." 

"What  do  you  think  about  it  now?"  asked 
John. 

"  My  opinion  is  now,"  replied  Mr.  Harum, 
"  that  it's  goin'  to  putty  near  where  it  belongs,  an' 
mebbe  higher,  an'  them  's  my  advices.  We  can 
sell  now  at  some  profit,  an'  of  course  the  bears  '11 
jump  on  agin  as  it  goes  up,  an'  the  other  fellers 
'11  take  the  profits  f'm  time  to  time.  If  I  was 
where  I  could  watch  the  market,  I'd  mebbe  try 
to  make  a  turn  in  't  'casionally,  but  I  guess  as 
't  is  we'd  better  set  down  an'  let  her  take  her  own 
gait.  I  don't  mean  to  try  an'  git  the  top  price — 
I'm  alwus  willin'  to  let  the  other  feller  make  a 
little — but  we've  waited  fer  quite  a  spell,  an'  as 
it's  goin'  our  way,  we  might  's  well  wait  a  little 
longer." 

"  All  right,"  said  John,  "  and  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you." 

"Sho,  sho!"  said  David. 

It  was  not  until  August,  however,  that  the 
deal  was  finally  closed  out. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

THE  summer  was  drawing  to  a  close.  The 
season,  so  far  as  the  social  part  of  it  was  con 
cerned,  had  been  what  John  had  grown  accus 
tomed  to  in  previous  years,  and  there  were  few 
changes  in  or  among  the  people  whom  he  had 
come  to  know  very  well,  save  those  which  a  few 
years  make  in  young  people:  some  increase  of 
importance  in  demeanor  on  the  part  of  the  young 
men  whose  razors  were  coming  into  requisition; 
and  the  changes  from  short  to  long  skirts,  from 
braids,  pig-tails,  and  flowing  manes  to  more  elab 
orate  coiffures  on  the  part  of  the  young  women. 
The  most  notable  event  had  been  the  reopening 
of  the  Verjoos  house,  which  had  been  closed  for 
two  summers,  and  the  return  of  the  family,  fol 
lowed  by  the  appearance  of  a  young  man  whom 
Miss  Clara  had  met  abroad,  and  who  represented 
himself  as  the  acknowledged  fiance  of  that  young 
woman.  It  need  hardly  be  said  that  discussions 
of  the  event,  and  upon  the  appearance,  manners, 
prospects,  etc.,  of  that  fortunate  gentleman  had 
formed  a  very  considerable  part  of  the  talk  of 
the  season  among  the  summer  people;  and,  in 
deed,  interest  in  the  affair  had  permeated  all 
grades  and  classes  of  society. 

It  was  some  six  weeks  after  the  settlement  of 
the  transaction  in  "  pork  "  that  David  and  John 
356 


DAVID   HARUM.  357 

were  driving  together  in  the  afternoon  as  they 
had  so  often  done  in  the  last  five  years.  They 
had  got  to  that  point  of  understanding  where 
neither  felt  constrained  to  talk  for  the  purpose  of 
keeping  up  conversation,  and  often  in  their  long 
drives  there  was  little  said  by  either  of  them.  The 
young  man  was  never  what  is  called  "  a  great 
talker,"  and  Mr.  Harum  did  not  always  "  git 
goin'."  On  this  occasion  they  had  gone  along 
for  some  time,  smoking  in  silence,  each  man  ab 
sorbed  in  his  thoughts.  Finally  David  turned  to 
his  companion. 

"  Do  you  know  that  Dutchman  Claricy  Ver- 
joos  is  goin'  to  marry?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  John,  laughing;  "I  have  met 
him  a  number  of  times.  But  he  isn't  a  Dutch 
man.  What  gave  you  that  idea?  " 

"  I  heard  it  was  over  in  Germany  she  run 
across  him,"  said  David. 

"  I  believe  that  is  so,  but  he  isn't  a  German. 
He  is  from  Philadelphia,  and  is  a  friend  of  the 
Bradways." 

"  What  kind  of  a  feller  is  he?  Good  enough 
for  her?" 

"  Well,"  said  John,  smiling,  "  in  the  sense  in 
which  that  question  is  usually  taken,  I  should 
say  yes.  He  has  good  looks,  good  manners,  a 
good  deal  of  money,  I  am  told,  and  it  is  said  that 
Miss  Clara — which  is  the  main  point,  after  all — 
is  very  much  in  love  with  him." 

"  H'm,"  said  David  after  a  moment.  "  How 
do  you  git  along  with  the  Verjoos  girls?  Was 
Clancy's  ears  pointed  all  right  when  you  seen 
her  fust  after  she  come  home?  " 

"Oh,  yes!"  replied  John,  smiling,  "she  and 
her  sister  were  perfectly  pleasant  and  cordial, 


358  DAVID    HARUM. 

and  Miss  Verjoos  and  I  are  on  very  friendly 
terms." 

"  I  was  thinkin',"  said  David,  "  that  you  an' 
Claricy  might  be  got  to  likin'  each  other,  an' 
mebbe " 

"  I  don't  think  there  could  ever  have  been  the 
smallest  chance  of  it,"  declared  John  hastily. 

"  Take  the  lines  a  minute,"  said  David,  hand 
ing  them  to  his  companion  after  stopping  the 
horses.  "  The  nigh  one's  picked  up  a  stone,  I 
guess,"  and  he  got  out  to  investigate.  "  The 
river  road,"  he  remarked  as  he  climbed  back  into 
the  buggy  after  removing  the  stone  from  the 
horse's  foot,  "  is  about  the  puttiest  road  'round 
here,  but  I  don't  drive  it  oftener  jest  on  account 
of  them  dum'd  loose  stuns."  He  sucked  the  air 
through  his  pursed-up  lips,  producing  a  little 
squeaking  sound,  and  the  horses  started  forward. 
Presently  he  turned  to  John: 

"  Did  you  ever  think  of  gettin'  married?"  he 
asked. 

"  Well,"  said  our  friend  with  a  little  hesita 
tion,  "  I  don't  remember  that  I  ever  did,  very 
definitely." 

"  Somebody  't  you  knew  'fore  you  come  up 
here?"  said  David,  jumping  at  a  conclusion. 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  smiling  a  little  at  the 
question. 

"  Wouldn't  she  have  ye?  "  queried  David,  who 
stuck  at  no  trifles  when  in  pursuit  of  information. 

John  laughed.  "  I  never  asked  her,"  he  re 
plied,  in  truth  a  little  surprised  at  his  own  will 
ingness  to  be  questioned. 

"  Did  ye  cal'late  to  when  the  time  come 
right?  "  pursued  Mr.  Harum. 

Of  this  part  of  his  history  John  had,  of  course, 


DAVID   HARUM.  359 

never  spoken  to  David.  There  had  been  a  time 
when,  if  not  resenting  the  attempt  upon  his  con 
fidence,  he  would  have  made  it  plain  that  he  did 
not  wish  to  discuss  the  matter,  and  the  old  wound 
still  gave  him  twinges.  But  he  had  not  only 
come  to  know  his  questioner  very  well,  but  to  be 
much  attached  to  him.  He  knew,  too,  that  the 
elder  man  would  ask  him  nothing  save  in  the 
way  of  kindness,  for  he  had  had  a  hundred  proofs 
of  that;  and  now,  so  far  from  feeling  reluc 
tant  to  take  his  companion  into  his  confidence, 
he  rather  welcomed  the  idea.  He  was,  withal, 
a  bit  curious  to  ascertain  the  drift  of  the  inquiry, 
knowing  that  David,  though  sometimes  working 
in  devious  ways,  rarely  started  without  an  inten 
tion.  And  so  he  answered  the  question  and  what 
followed  as  he  might  have  told  his  story  to  a 
woman. 

"  An'  didn't  you  never  git  no  note,  nor  mes 
sage,  nor  word  of  any  kind?  "  asked  David. 

"  No." 

"  Nor  hain't  ever  heard  a  word  about  her  f'm 
that  day  to  this?" 

"  No." 

"  Nor  hain't  ever  tried  to?" 

"  No,"  said  John.  "  What  would  have  been 
the  use?" 

"  Prov'dence  seemed  to  Ve  made  a  putty 
clean  sweep  in  your  matters  that  spring,  didn't 
it?" 

"  It  seemed  so  to  me,"  said  John. 

Nothing  more  was  said  for  a  minute  or  two. 
Mr.  Harum  appeared  to  have  abandoned  the  pur 
suit  of  the  subject  of  his  questions.  At  last  he 
said: 

"  You  ben  here  most  five  years." 


360  DAVID    HARUM. 

"  Very  nearly,"  John  replied. 

"  Ben  putty  contented,  on  the  hull?" 

"  I  have  grown  to  be,"  said  John.  "  Indeed, 
it's  hard  to  realize  at  times  that  I  haven't  always 
lived  in  Homeville.  I  remember  my  former  life 
as  if  it  were  something  I  have  read  in  a  book. 
There  was  a  John  Lenox  in  it,1  but  he  seems  to 
me  sometimes  more  like  a  character  in  a  story 
than  myself." 

"  An'  yet,"  said  David,  turning  toward  him, 
"  if  you  was  to  go  back  to  it,  this  last  five  years 
'd  git  to  be  that  way  to  ye  a  good  deal  quicker. 
Don't  ye  think  so?  "' 

"Perhaps  so,"  replied  John.  "Yes,"  he 
added  thoughtfully,  "  it  is  possible." 

"  I  guess  on  the  hull,  though,"  remarked  Mr. 
Harum,  "  you  done  better  up  here  in  the  country 
'n  you  might  some  'ers  else -" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  John  sincerely,  "  thanks  to 
you,  I  have  indeed,  and " 

" — an' — ne'  mind  about  me — you  got  quite  a 
little  bunch  o'  money  together  now.  I  was  think- 
in'  't  mebbe  you  might  feel  't  you  needn't  to  stay 
here  no  longer  if  you  didn't  want  to." 

The  young  man  turned  to  the  speaker  inquir-- 
ingly,  but  Mr.  Harum's  face  was  straight  to  the 
front,  and  betrayed  nothing. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  no  more  'n  natural,"  he  went 
on,  "  an'  mebbe  it  would  be  best  for  ye.  You're 
too  good  a  man  to  spend  all  your  days  workin' 
fer  Dave  Harum,  an'  I've  had  it  in  my  mind  fer 
some  time — somethin'  like  that  pork  deal — to 
make  you  a  little  independent  in  case  anythin' 
should  happen,  an' — gen'ally.  I  couldn't  give  ye 
no  money  'cause  you  wouldn't  'a'  took  it  even  if 
I'd  wanted  to,  but  now  you  got  it,  why " 


DAVID   HARUM.  361 

"  I  feel  very  much  as  if  you  had  given  it  to 
me,"  protested  the  young  man. 

David  put  up  his  hand.  "  No,  no,"  he  said, 
"  all  't  I  did  was  to  propose  the  thing  to  ye,  an" 
to  put  up  a  little  money  fer  two  three  days.  I 
didn't  take  no  chances,  an'  it's  all  right,  an'  it's 
your'n,  an'  it  makes  ye  to  a  certain  extent  inde 
pendent  of  Homeville." 

"  I  don't  quite  see  it  so,"  said  John. 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  turning  to  him,  "if 
you'd  had  as  much  five  years  ago  you  wouldn't 
V  come  here,  would  ye?" 

John  was  silent. 

"  What  I  was  leadin'  up  to,"  resumed  Mr. 
Harum  after  a  moment,  "  is  this :  I  ben  thinkin' 
about  it  fer  some  time,  but  I  haven't  wanted  to 
speak  to  ye  about  it  before.  In  fact,  I  might  V 
put  it  off  some  longer  if  things  wa'n't  as  they 
are,  but  the  fact  o'  the  matter  is  that  I'm  goin5 
to  take  down  my  sign." 

John  looked  at  him  in  undisguised  amaze 
ment,  not  unmixed  with  consternation. 

"  Yes,"  said  David,  obviously  avoiding  the 
other's  eye,  "  '  David  Harum,  Banker,'  is  goin'  to 
come  down.  I'm  gettin'  to  be  an'  old  man,"  he 
went  on,  "  an'  what  with  some  investments  I've 
got,  an'  a  hoss-trade  once  in  a  while,  I  guess  I  c'n 
manage  to  keep  the  fire  goin'  in  the  kitchin  stove 
fer  Polly  an'  me,  an'  the'  ain't  no  reason  why  I 
sh'd  keep  my  sign  up  much  of  any  longer.  Of 
course,"  he  said,  "if  I  was  to  go  on  as  I  be  now  I'd 
want  ye  to  stay  jest  as  you  are;  but,  as  I  was  say  in', 
you're  to  a  consid'able  extent  independent.  You 
hain't  no  speciul  ties  to  keep  ye,  an'  you  ought 
anyway,  as  I  said  before,  to  be  doin'  better  for 
yourself  than  jest  drawin'  pay  in  a  country  bank.5' 

24 


DAVID    HARUM. 


One  of  the  most  impressive  morals  drawn 
from  the  fairy  tales  of  our  childhood,  and  indeed 
from  the  literature  and  experience  of  our  later 
periods  of  life,  is  that  the  fulfilment  of  wishes  is 
often  attended  by  the  most  unwelcome  results. 
There  had  been  a  great  many  times  when  to  our 
friend  the  possibility  of  being  able  to  bid  fare 
well  to  Homeville  had  seemed  the  most  desirable 
of  things,  but  confronted  with  the  idea  as  a  real 
ity — for  what  other  construction  could  he  put 
upon  David's  words  except  that  they  amounted 
practically  to  a  dismissal,  though  a  most  kind 
one? — he  found  himself  simply  in  dismay. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said  after  a  few  moments, 
"  that  by  '  taking  down  your  sign '  you  mean 
going  out  of  business " 

"  Digger  o'  speech,"  explained  David. 

"  — and  your  determination  is  not  only  a 
great  surprise  to  me,  but  grieves  me  very  much. 
I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it — more  sorry  than  I 
can  tell  you.  As  you  remind  me,  if  I  leave 
Homeville  I  shall  not  go  almost  penniless  as  I 
came,  but  I  shall  leave  with  great  regret,  and,  in 
deed Ah,  well "  he  broke  off  with  a 

wave  of  his  hands. 

"  What  was  you  goin'  to  say?  "  asked  David, 
after  a  moment,  his  eyes  on  the  horizon. 

"  I  can't  say  very  much  more,"  replied  the 
young  man,  "  than  that  I  am  very  sorry.  There 
have  been  times,"  he  added,  "  as  you  may  under 
stand,  when  I  have  been  restless  and  discouraged 
for  a  while,  particularly  at  first ;  but  I  can  see  now 
that,  on  the  whole,  I  have  been  far  from  unhappy 
here.  Your  house  has  grown  to  be  more  a  real 
home  than  any  I  have  ever  known,  and  you  and 
your  sister  are  like  my  own  people.  What  you 


DAVID   HARUM.  363 

say,  that  I  ought  not  to  look  forward  to  spending 
my  life  behind  the  counter  of  a  village  bank  on  a 
salary,  may  be  true;  but  I  am  not,  at  present  at 
least,  a  very  ambitious  person,  nor,  I  am  afraid, 
a  very  clever  one  in  the  way  of  getting  on  in  the 
world;  and  the  idea  of  breaking  out  for  myself, 
even  if  that  were  all  to  be  considered,  is  not  a 
cheerful  one.  I  am  afraid  all  this  sounds  rather 
selfish  to  you,  when,  as  I  can  see,  you  have  de 
ferred  your  plans  for  my  sake,  and  after  all  else 
that  you  have  done  for  me." 

"  I  guess  I  sha'n't  lay  it  up  agin  ye,"  said 
David  quietly. 

They  drove  along  in  silence  for  a  while. 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  John,  at  length,  "  when 
you  intend  to  '  take  down  your  sign/  as  you 
put  it?" 

"  Whenever  you  say  the  word,"  declared 
David,  with  a  chuckle  and  a  side  glance  at  his 
companion.  John  turned  in  bewilderment. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"  Wa'al,"  said  David  with  another  short  laugh, 
"  fur  's  the  sign  's  concerned,  I  s'pose  we  could 
stick  a  new  one  over  it,  but  I  guess  it  might  's 
well  come  down;  but  we'll  settle  that  matter 
later  on." 

John  still  looked  at  the  speaker  in  utter  per 
plexity,  until  the  latter  broke  out  into  a  laugh. 

"  Got  any  idee  what's  goin'  onto  the  new 
sign?"  he  asked. 

"  You  don't  mean " 

;'  Yes,  I  do,"  declared  Mr.  Harum,  "  an'  my 
notion  's  this,  an'  don't  you  say  aye,  yes,  nor  no 
till  I  git  through,"  and  he  laid  his  left  hand  re- 
strainingly  on  John's  knee. 

"  The  new  sign  '11  read  '  Harum  &  Comp'ny/ 


364 


DAVID    HARUM. 


or  '  Harum  &  Lenox/  jest  as  you  elect.  You 
c'n  put  in  what  money  you  got  an'  I'll  put  in  as 
much  more,  which  '11  make  cap'tal  enough  in 
gen'ral,  an'  any  extry  money  that's  needed — 
wa'al,  up  to  a  certain  point,  I  guess  I  c'n  manage. 
Now  putty  much  all  the  new  bus'nis  has  come 
in  through  you,  an'  practically  you  got  the  hull 
thing  in  your  hands.  You'll  do  the  work  about 
's  you're  doin'  now,  an'  you'll  draw  the  same  sal- 
'ry;  an'  after  that's  paid  we'll  go  snucks  on  any- 
thin'  that's  left — that  is"  added  David  with  a 
chuckle,  "  if  you  feel  that  you  c'n  stan*  it  in 
Homeville." 

"  I  wish  you  was  married  to  one  of  our 
Homeville  girls,  though,"  declared  Mr.  Harum 
later  on  as  they  drove  homeward. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

SINCE  the  whooping-cough  and  measles  of 
childhood  the  junior  partner  of  Harum  &  Com 
pany  had  never  to  his  recollection  had  a  day's 
illness  in  his  life,  and  he  fought  the  attack  which 
came  upon  him  about  the  first  week  in  December 
with  a  sort  of  incredulous  disgust,  until  one 
morning  when  he  did  not  appear  at  breakfast. 
He  spent  the  next  week  in  bed,  and  at  the  end  of 
that  time,  while  he  was  able  to  be  about,  it  was 
in  a  languid  and  spiritless  fashion,  and  he  was 
shaken  and  exasperated  by  a  persistent  cough. 
The  season  was  and  had  been  unusually  inclem 
ent  even  for  that  region,  where  the  thermometer 
sometimes  changes  fifty  degrees  in  thirty-six 
hours;  and  at  the  time  of  his  release  from  his 
room  there  was  a  period  of  successive  changes  of 
temperature  from  thawing  to  zero  and  below,  a 
characteristic  of  the  wrinter  climate  of  Homeville 
and  its  vicinity.  Dr.  Hayes  exhibited  the  inevi 
table  quinine,  iron,  and  all  the  tonics  in  his  phar 
macopoeia,  with  cough  mixtures  and  sundry,  but 
in  vain.  Aunt  Polly  pressed  bottles  of  sovereign 
decoctions  and  infusions  upon  him — which  were 
received  with  thanks  and  neglected  with  the 
blackest  ingratitude — and  exhausted  not  only  the 
markets  of  Homeville,  but  her  own  and  Sairy's 
culinary  resources  (no  mean  ones,  by  the  way) 

365 


366 


DAVID    HARUM. 


to  tempt  the  appetite  which  would  not  respond. 
One  week  followed  another  without  any  im 
provement  in  his  condition;  and  indeed  as  time 
went  on  he  fell  into  a  condition  of  irritable  list- 
lessness  which  filled  his  partner  with  concern. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him,  Doc?"  said 
David  to  the  physician.  "  He  don't  seem  to  take 
no  more  int'rist  than  a  foundered  hoss.  Can't 
ye  do  nothin'  for  him?" 

"  Not  much  use  dosin'  him,"  replied  the  doc 
tor.  "  Pull  out  all  right,  may  be,  come  warm 
weather.  Big  strong  fellow,  but  this  cussed  in- 
fluenzy,  or  grip,  as  they  call  it,  sometimes  hits 
them  hardest." 

"  Wa'al,  warm  weather  's  some  way  off,"  re 
marked  Mr.  Harum,  "  an'  he  coughs  enough  to 
tear  his  head  off  sometimes." 

The  doctor  nodded.  "  Ought  to  clear  out 
somewhere,"  he  said.  "  Don't  like  that  cough 
myself." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  David. 

"  Ought  to  go  'way  for  a  spell,"  said  the  doc 
tor;  "  quit  working,  and  get  a  change  of  cli 
mate." 

"  Have  you  told  him  so?"  asked  Mr.  Ha 
rum. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  doctor;  "  said  he  couldn't 
get  away." 

"  H'm'm !  "  said  David  thoughtfully,  pinch 
ing  his  lower  lip  between  his  thumb  and  finger. 

A  day  or  two  after  the  foregoing  interview, 
John  came  in  and  laid  an  open  letter  in  front  of 
David,  who  was  at  his  desk,  and  dropped  lan 
guidly  into  a  chair  without  speaking.  Mr. 
Harum  read  the  letter,  smiled  a  little,  and  turn 
ing  in  his  chair,  took  off  his  glasses  and  looked 


DAVID   HARUM.  367 

at  the  young  man,  who  was  staring  abstractedly 
at  the  floor. 

"  I  ben  rather  expectin'  you'd  git  somethin* 
like  this.  What  be  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  John.  "  I  don't  like 
the  idea  of  leasing  the  property  in  any  case,  and 
certainly  not  on  the  terms  they  offer;  but  it  is 
lying  idle,  and  I'm  paying  taxes  on  it " 

"  Wa'al,  as  I  said,  I  ben  expectin'  fer  some 
time  they'd  be  after  ye  in  some  shape.  You  got 
this  this  mornin'?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  expect  you'd  sell  the  prop'ty  if  you  got  a 
good  chance,  wouldn't  ye?" 

"  With  the  utmost  pleasure,"  said  John  em 
phatically. 

"Wa'al,  I've  got  a  notion  they'll  buy  it  of 
ye,"  said  David,  "  if  it's  handled  right.  I 
wouldn't  lease  it  if  it  was  mine  an'  I  wanted  to 
sell  it,  an'  yet,  in  the  long  run,  you  might  git 
more  out  of  it — an'  then  agin  you  mightn't,"  he 
added. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  said  John, 
putting  his  handkerchief  to  his  mouth  in  a  fit  of 
coughing.  David  looked  at  him  with  a  frown. 

"  I  ben  aware  fer  some  time  that  the'  was  a 
movement  on  foot  in  your  direction,"  he  said. 
"  You  know  I  told  ye  that  I'd  ben  int'ristid  in 
the  oil  bus'nis  once  on  a  time;  an'  I  hain't  never 
quite  lost  my  int'rist,  though  it  hain't  ben  a  very 
active  one  lately,  an'  some  fellers  down  there 
have  kep'  me  posted  some.  The'  's  ben  oil  found 
near  where  you're  located,  an'  the  prospectin' 
points  your  way.  The  hull  thing  has  ben  kep'  as 
close  as  possible,  an'  the  holes  has  ben  plugged, 
but  the  oil  is  there  somewhere.  Now  it's  like 


368 


DAVID   HARUM. 


this:  If  you  lease  on  shares  an'  they  strike  the 
oil  on  your  prop'ty,  mebbe  it'll  bring  you  more 
money;  but  they  might  strike,  an'  agin  they 
mightn't.  Sometimes  you  git  a  payin'  well  an'  a 
dry  hole  only  a  few  hunderd  feet  apart.  Never 
theless  they  want  to  drill  your  prop'ty.  I  know 
who  the  parties  is.  These  fellers  that  wrote  this 
letter  are  simply  actin'  for  'em." 

The  speaker  was  interrupted  by  another  fit 
of  coughing,  which  left  the  sufferer  very  red  in 
the  face,  and  elicited  from  him  the  word  which 
is  always  greeted  with  laughter  in  a  theater. 

"  Say,"  said  David,  after  a  moment,  in  which 
he  looked  anxiously  at  his  companion,  "  I  don't 
like  that  cough  o'  your'n." 

"  I  don't  thoroughly  enjoy  it  myself,"  was  the 
rejoinder. 

"  Seems  to  be  kind  o'  growin'  on  ye,  don't 
it?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  John. 

"  I  was  talkin'  with  Doc  Hayes  about  ye," 
said  David,  "  an'  he  allowed  you'd  ought  to  have 
your  shoes  off  an'  run  loose  a  spell." 

John  smiled  a  little,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  Spoke  to  you  about  it,  didn't  he?  "  contin 
ued  David. 

"  Yes." 

"  An'  you  told  him  you  couldn't  git  away?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Didn't  tell  him  you  wouldn't  go  if  you 
could,  did  ye?" 

"  I  only  told  him  I  couldn't  go,"  said  John. 

David  sat  for  a  moment  thoughtfully  tapping 
the  desk  with  his  eyeglasses,  and  then  said  with 
his  characteristic  chuckle: 

"1  had  a  letter  fm  diet  Timson  yestidy." 


DAVID   HARUM.  369 

John  looked  up  at  him,  failing  to  see  the  con 
nection. 

"  Yes,"  said  David,  "  he's  out  fer  a  job,  an' 
the  way  he  writes  I  guess  the  dander's  putty  well 
out  of  him.  I  reckon  the'  hain't  ben  nothin' 
much  but  hay  in  his  manger  fer  quite  a  spell,"  re 
marked  Mr.  Harum. 

"H'm!"  said  John,  raising  his  brows,  con 
scious  of  a  humane  but  very  faint  interest  in 
Mr.  Timson's  affairs.  Mr.  Harum  got  out  a 
cigar,  and,  lighting  it,  gave  a  puff  or  two,  and 
continued  with  what  struck  the  younger  man 
as  a  perfectly  irrelevant  question.  It  really 
seemed  to  him  as  if  his  senior  were  making  con 
versation. 

"How's  Peleg  doin'  these  days?"  was  the 
query. 

"  Very  well,"  was  the  reply. 

"  C'n  do  most  anythin'  't's  nec'sary,  can't 
he?" 

A  brief  interruption  followed  upon  the  en 
trance  of  a  man,  who,  after  saying  good-morn 
ing,  laid  a  note  on  David's  desk,  asking  for 
the  money  on  it.  Mr.  Harum  handed  it  back, 
indicating  John  with  a  motion  of  his 
thumb. 

The  latter  took  it,  looked  at  the  face  and  back, 
marked  his  initials  on  it  with  a  pencil,  and  the 
man  went  out  to  the  counter. 

"  If  you  was  fixed  so  't  you  could  git  away 
fer  a  spell,"  said  David  a  moment  or  two  after 
the  customer's  departure,  "  where  would  you 
like  to  go?" 

"  I  have  not  thought  about  it,"  said  John 
rather  listlessly. 

"  Wa'al,  s'pose  you  think  about  it  a  littte 
25 


370 


DAVID   HARUM. 


now,  if  you  hain't  got  no  pressin'  engagement. 
Bus'nis  don't  seem  to  be  very  rushin'  this 
mornin'." 

"Why?"  said  John. 

"  Because,"  said  David  impressively,  "  you're 
goin'  somewhere  right  off,  quick  's  you  c'n  git 
ready,  an'  you  may  's  well  be  makin'  up  your 
mind  where." 

John  looked  up  in  surprise.  "  I  don't  want 
to  go  away,"  he  said,  "  and  if  I  did,  how  could  I 
leave  the  office?  " 

"  No,"  responded  Mr.  Harum,  "  you  don't 
want  to  make  a  move  of  any  kind  that  you  don't 
actually  have  to,  an'  that's  the  reason  fer  makin' 
one.  F'm  what  the  doc  said,  an'  f'm  what  I  c'n 
see,  you  got  to  git  out  o'  this  dum'd  climate," 
waving  his  hand  toward  the  window,  against 
which  the  sleet  was  beating,  "  fer  a  spell;  an'  as 
fur  's  the  office  goes,  Chet  Timson  'd  be  tickled 
to  death  to  come  on  an'  help  out  while  you're 
away,  an'  I  guess  'mongst  us  we  c'n  mosey  along 
some  gait.  I  ain't  quite  to  the  bone-yard  yet 
myself,"  he  added  with  a  grin. 

The  younger  man  sat  for  a  moment  or  two 
with  brows  contracted,  and  pulling  thoughtfully 
at  his  moustache. 

"  There  is  that  matter,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
the  letter  on  the  desk. 

"Wa'al,"   said  David,   "the'  ain't   no  tearin' 
hurry  'bout  that ;  an'  anyway,  I  was  goin'  to  make  ^ 
you  a  suggestion  to  put  the  matter  into  my  hands 
to  some  extent." 

"  Will  you  take  it  ?  "  said  John  quickly.  "  That 
is  exactly  what  I  should  wish  in  any  case." 

"  If  you  want  I  should,"  replied  Mr.  Harum. 
"Would  you  want  to  give  full  power  attorney, 


DAVID   HARUM.  371 

or  jest  have  me  say  't  I  was  instructed  to  act 
for  ye?" 

"  I  think  a  better  way  would  be  to  put  the 
property  in  your  name  altogether,"  said  John. 
"  Don't  you  think  so?  " 

"Wa'al,"  said  David,  thoughtfully,  after  a 
moment,  "  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,  but  mebbe  I 
could  handle  the  matter  better  if  you  was  to  do 
that.  I  know  the  parties,  an'  if  the'  was  any 
bluffin'  to  be  done  either  side,  mebbe  it  would 
be  better  if  they  thought  I  was  playin'  my  own 
hand." 

At  that  point  Peleg  appeared  and  asked  Mr. 
Lenox  a  question  which  took  the  latter  to  the 
teller's  counter.  David  sat  for  some  time  drum 
ming  on  his  desk  with  the  fingers  of  both  hands. 
A  succession  of  violent  coughs  came  from  the 
front  room.  His  mouth  and  brows  contracted  in 
a  wince,  and  rising,  he  put  on  his  coat  and  hat 
and  went  slowly  out  of  the  bank. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE  Vaterland  was  advertised  to  sail  at  one 
o'clock,  and  it  wanted  but  fifteen  or  twenty  min 
utes  of  the  hour.  After  assuring  himself  that  his 
belongings  were  all  together  in  his  state-room, 
John  made  his  way  to  the  upper  deck  and  lean 
ing  against  the  rail,  watched  the  bustle  of  em 
barkation,  somewhat  interested  in  the  people 
standing  about,  among  whom  it  was  difficult  in 
instances  to  distinguish  the  passengers  from  those 
who  were  present  to  say  farewell.  Near  him  at 
the  moment  were  two  people,  apparently  man 
and  wife,  of  middle  age  and  rather  distinguished 
appearance,  to  whom  presently  approached,  with 
some  evidence  of  hurry  and  with  outstretched 
hand,  a  very  well  dressed  and  pleasant  looking 
man. 

"  Ah,  here  you  are,  Mrs.  Ruggles,"  John 
heard  him  say  as  he  shook  hands. 

Then  followed  some  commonplaces  of  good 
wishes  and  farewells,  and  in  reply  to  a  ques 
tion  which  John  did  not  catch,  he  heard  the  lady 
addressed  as  Mrs.  Ruggles  say,  "  Oh,  didn't  you 
see  her?  We  left  her  on  the  lower  deck  a  few 
minutes  ago.  Ah,  here  she  comes." 

The  man  turned  and  advanced  a  step  to  meet 
the  person  in  question.     John's  eyes  involuntarily 
followed  the  movement,  and  as  he  saw  her  ap- 
372 


DAVID   HARUM.  373 

proach  his  heart  contracted  sharply :  it  was  Mary 
Blake.  He  turned  away  quickly,  and  as  the 
collar  of  his  ulster  was  about  his  face,  for  the  air 
of  the  January  day  was  very  keen,  he  thought 
that  she  had  not  recognized  him.  A  moment 
later  he  went  aft  around  the  deck-house,  and  go 
ing  forward  to  the  smoking-room,  seated  himself 
therein,  and  took  the  passenger  list  out  of  his 
pocket.  He  had  already  scanned  it  rather  cur 
sorily,  having  but  the  smallest  expectation  of 
coming  upon  a  familiar  name,  yet  feeling  sure 
that,  had  hers  been  there,  it  could  not  have  es 
caped  him.  Nevertheless,  he  now  ran  his  eye 
over  the  columns  with  eager  scrutiny,  and  the 
hands  which  held  the  paper  shook  a  little. 

There  was  no  name  in  the  least  like  Blake, 
It  occurred  to  him  that  by  some  chance  or  error 
hers  might  have  been  omitted,  when  his  eye 
caught  the  following: 

William   Ruggles New  York. 

Mrs.  Ruggles 

Mrs.  Edward  Ruggles "          " 

It  was  plain  to  him  then.  She  was  obviously 
traveling  with  the  people  whom  she  had  just 
joined  on  deck,  and  it  was  equally  plain  that  she 
was  Mrs.  Edward  Ruggles.  When  he  looked 
up  the  ship  was  out  in  the  river. 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

JOHN  had  been  late  in  applying  for  his  pas 
sage,  and  in  consequence,  the  ship  being  very 
full,  had  had  to  take  what  berth  he  could  get, 
which  happened  to  be  in  the  second  cabin.  The 
occupants  of  these  quarters,  however,  were  not 
rated  as  second-class  passengers.  The  Vater- 
land  took  none  such  on  her  outward  voyages, 
and  all  were  on  the  same  footing  as  to  the  fare 
and  the  freedom  of  the  ship.  The  captain  and 
the  orchestra  appeared  at  dinner  in  the  second 
saloon  on  alternate  nights,  and  the  only  disadvan 
tage  in  the  location  was  that  it  was  very  far  aft; 
unless  it  could  be  considered  a  drawback  that  the 
furnishings  were  of  plain  wood  and  plush  instead 
of  carving,  gilding,  and  stamped  leather.  In  fact, 
as  the  voyage  proceeded,  our  friend  decided  that 
the  after-deck  was  pleasanter  than  the  one  amid 
ships,  and  the  cozy  second-class  smoking-room 
more  agreeable  than  the  large  and  gorgeous  one 
forward. 

Consequently,  for  a  while  he  rarely  went 
across  the  bridge  which  spanned  the  opening  be 
tween  the  two  decks.  It  may  be  that  he  had  a 
certain  amount  of  reluctance  to  encounter  Mrs. 
Edward  Ruggles. 

The  roof  of  the  second  cabin  deck-house  was, 
when  there  was  not  too  much  wind,  a  favorite 
374 


DAVID   HARUM.  375 

place  with  him.  It  was  not  much  frequented,  as 
most  of  those  who  spent  their  time  on  deck 
apparently  preferred  a  place  nearer  amidships, 
He  was  sitting  there  on  the  morning  of  the  fifth 
day  out,  looking  idly  over  the  sea,  with  an  occa 
sional  glance  at  the  people  who  were  walking  on 
the  promenade-deck  below,  or  leaning  on  the  rail 
which  bounded  it.  He  turned  at  a  slight  sound 
behind  him,  and  rose  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
The  flush  in  his  face,  as  he  took  the  hand  which 
was  offered  him,  reflected  the  color  in  the  face 
of  the  owner,  but  the  grayish  brown  eyes,  which 
he  remembered  so  well,  looked  into  his,  a  little 
curiously,  perhaps,  but  frankly  and  kindly.  She 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Lenox?"  she  said. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Ruggles?"  said  John, 
throwing  up  his  hand  as,  at  the  moment  of  his 
reply,  a  puff  of  wind  blew  the  cape  of  his  mackin 
tosh  over  his  head.  They  both  laughed  a  little 
(this  was  their  greeting  after  nearly  six  years), 
and  sat  down. 

"What  a  nice  place!"  she  said,  looking 
about  her. 

"Yes,"  said  John;  "I  sit  here  a  good  deal 
when  it  isn't  too  windy." 

"  I  have  been  wondering  why  I  did  not 
get  a  sight  of  you,"  she  said.  "  I  saw  your 
name  in  the  passenger  list.  Have  you  been 
ill?" 

"  I'm  in  the  second  cabin,"  he  said,  smiling. 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  incredulously,  and 
he  explained. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  "  I  saw  your  name,  but 
as  you  did  not  appear  in  the  dining  saloon,  I 
thought  you  must  either  be  ill  or  that  you  did 


376  DAVID   HARUM. 

not  sail.  Did  you  know  that  I  was  on  board?" 
she  asked. 

It  was  rather  an  embarrassing  question. 

"  I  have  been  intending,"  he  replied  rather 
lamely,  "  to  make  myself  known  to  you — that  is, 
to — well,  make  my  presence  on  board  known  to 
you.  I  got  just  a  glimpse  of  you  before  we 
sailed,  when  you  came  up  to  speak  to  a  man  who 
had  been  saying  good-bye  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rug 
gles.  I  heard  him  speak  their  name,  and  look 
ing  over  the  passenger  list  I  identified  you  as 
Mrs.  Edward  Ruggles." 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  looking  away  for  an  instant, 
"  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  seen  me,  and  I 
wondered  how  you  came  to  address  me  as  Mrs. 
Ruggles  just  now." 

"  That  was  how,"  said  John;  and  then,  after 
a  moment,  "  it  seems  rather  odd,  doesn't  it,  that 
we  should  be  renewing  an  acquaintance  on  an 
ocean  steamer  as  we  did  once  before,  so  many 
years  ago?  and  that  the  first  bit  of  intelligence 
that  I  have  had  of  you  in  all  the  years  since  I 
saw  you  last  should  come  to  me  through  the  pas 
senger  list?  " 

"  Did  you  ever  try  to  get  any?"  she  asked. 
"  I  have  always  thought  it  very  strange  that  we 
should  never  have  heard  anything  about  you." 

"  I  went  to  the  house  once,  some  weeks  after 
you  had  gone,"  said  John,  "  but  the  man  in 
charge  was  out,  and  the  maid  could  tell  me  noth 
ing." 

"  A  note  I  wrote  you  at  the  time  of  your  fa 
ther's  death,"  she  said,  "  we  found  in  my  small 
nephew's  overcoat  pocket  after  we  had  been  some 
time  in  California;  but  I  wrote  a  second  one 
before  we  left  New  York,  telling  you  of 


DAVID   HARUM.  377 

our  intended  departure,  and  where  we  were 
going." 

"  I  never  received  it,"  he  said.  Neither  spoke 
for  a  while,  and  then: 

"  Tell  me  of  your  sister  and  brother-in-law," 
he  said. 

"  My  sister  is  at  present  living  in  Cambridge, 
where  Jack  is  at  college,"  was  the  reply;  "  but 
poor  Julius  died  two  years  ago." 

"  Ah,"  said  John,  "  I  am  grieved  to  hear  of 
Mr.  Carling's  death.  I  liked  him  very  much." 

"  He  liked  you  very  much,"  she  said,  "  and 
often  spoke  of  you." 

There  was  another  period  of  silence,  so  long, 
indeed,  as  to  be  somewhat  embarrassing.  None 
of  the  thoughts  which  followed  each  other  in 
John's  mind  was  of  the  sort  which  he  felt  like 
broaching.  He  realized  that  the  situation  was 
getting  awkward,  and  that  consciousness  added 
to  the  confusion  of  his  ideas.  But  if  his  compan 
ion  shared  his  embarrassment,  neither  her  face 
nor  her  manner  betrayed  it  as  at  last  she  said, 
turning,  and  looking  frankly  at  him: 

"  You  seem  very  little  changed.  Tell  me 
about  yourself.  Tell  me  something  of  your  life 
in  the  last  six  years." 

During  the  rest  of  the  voyage  they  were  to 
gether  for  a  part  of  every  day,  sometimes  with 
the  company  of  Mrs.  William  Ruggles,  but  more 
often  without  it,  as  her  husband  claimed  much  of 
her  attention  and  rarely  came  on  deck ;  and  John, 
from  time  to  time,  gave  his  companion  pretty 
much  the  whole  history  of  his  later  career.  But 
with  regard  to  her  own  life,  and,  as  he  noticed, 
especially  the  two  years  since  the  death  of  her 
brother-in-law,  she  was  distinctly  reticent.  She 


378  DAVID  HARUM. 

never  spoke  of  her  marriage  or  her  husband, 
and  after  one  or  two  faintly  tentative  allusions, 
John  forebore  to  touch  upon  those  subjects,  and 
was  driven  to  conclude  that  her  experience  had 
not  been  a  happy  one.  Indeed,  in  their  inter 
course  there  were  times  when  she  appeared  dis 
trait  and  even  moody;  but  on  the  whole  she 
seemed  to  him  to  be  just  as  he  had  known  and 
loved  her  years  ago;  and  all  the  feeling  that  he 
had  had  for  her  then  broke  forth  afresh  in  spite  of 
himself — in  spite  of  the  fact  that,  as  he  told  him 
self,  it  was  more  hopeless  than  ever:  absolutely 
so,  indeed. 

It  was  the  last  night  of  their  voyage  together. 
The  Ruggleses  were  to  leave  the  ship  the  next 
morning  at  Algiers,  where  they  intended  to  re 
main  for  some  time. 

"  Would  you  mind  going  to  the  after-deck?  " 
he  asked.  "  These  people  walking  about  fidget 
me,"  he  added  rather  irritably. 

She  rose,  and  they  made  their  way  aft.  John 
drew  a  couple  of  chairs  near  to  the  rail.  "  I 
don't  care  to  sit  down  for  the  present,"  she  said, 
and  they  stood  looking  out  at  sea  for  a  while  in 
silence. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  John  at  last,  "  a 
night  six  years  ago  when  we  stood  together,  at 
the  end  of  the  voyage,  leaning  over  the  rail  like 
this?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Does  this  remind  you  of  it?"  he  asked. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  it,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  last  night  I  was  at 
your  house?  "  he  asked,  looking  straight  out  over 
the  moonlit  water. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  again. 


DAVID   HARUM.  379 

"  Did  you  know  that  night  what  was  in  my, 
heart  to  say  to  you?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"May  I  tell  you  now?"  he  asked,  giving  a 
side  glance  at  her  profile,  which  in  the  moonlight 
showed  very  white. 

"  Do  you  think  you  ought?  "  she  answered  in 
a  low  voice,  "  or  that  I  ought  to  listen  to  you?  " 

"  I  know,"  he  exclaimed.  "  You  think  that 
as  a  married  woman  you  should  not  listen,  and 
that  knowing  you  to  be  one  I  should  not  speak. 
If  it  were  to  ask  anything  of  you  I  would  not. 
It  is  for  the  first  and  last  time.  To-morrow  we 
part  again,  and  for  all  time,  I  suppose.  I  have 
carried  the  words  that  were  on  my  lips  that  night 
all  these  years  in  my  heart.  I  know  I  can  have 
no  response — I  expect  none;  but  it  can  not  harm 
you  if  J  tdJ  "-n*  fiat  I  loved  you  then,  and 
have—  * 

She  put  up  her  hand  in  protest. 

"  You  must  not  go  on,  Mr.  Lenox,"  she  said, 
turning  to  him,  "  and  I  must  leave  you." 

"Are  you  very  angry  with  me?"  he  asked 
humbly. 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  sea  again  and  gave 
a  sad  little  laugh. 

"  Not  so  much  as  I  ought  to  be,"  she  an 
swered;  "  but  you  yourself  have  given  the  reason 
why  you  should  not  say  such  things,  and  why  I 
should  not  listen,  and  why  I  ought  to  say  good 
night." 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said  bitterly;  "of  course  you 
are  right,  and  this  is  to  be  the  end." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment. 
"  You  will  never  again  speak  to  me  as  you  have 
to-night,  will  you?"  she  asked. 


DAVID   HARUM. 

"  I  should  not  have  said  what  I  did  had  I  not 
thought  I  should  never  see  you  again  after  to 
morrow,"  said  John,  "  and  I  am  not  likely  to  do 
that,  ami?" 

"  If  I  could  be  sure,"  she  said  hesitatingly, 
and  as  if  to  herself. 

"  Well,"  said  John  eagerly.  She  stood  with 
her  eyes  downcast  for  a  moment,  one  hand  rest 
ing  on  the  rail,  and  then  she  looked  up. 

"  We  expect  to  stay  in  Algiers  about  two 
months,"  she  said,  "  and  then  we  are  going  to 
Naples  to  visit  some  friends  for  a  few  days,  about 
the  time  you  told  me  you  thought  you  might  be 
there.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  we  said 
good-bye  to-night  ;  but  if  after  we  get  home 
you  are  to  spend  your  days  in  Homeville  and  I 
mine  in  New  York,  we  shall  not  be  likely  to  meet, 
and,  except  on  this  side  of  the  ocean,  we  may,  as 
you  say,  never  see  each  other  again.  So,  if  you 
wish,  you  may  come  to  see  me  in  Naples  if  you 
happen  to  be  there  when  we  are.  I  am  sure  after 
to-night  that  I  may  trust  you,  may  I  not?  But," 
she  added,  "  perhaps  you  would  not  care.  I  am 
treating  you  very  frankly;  but  from  your  stand 
point  you  would  expect  or  excuse  more  frankness 
than  if  I  were  a  young  girl." 

"  I  care  very  much,"  he  declared,  "  and  it  will 
be  a  happiness  to  me  to  see  you  on  any  footing, 
and  you  may  trust  me  never  to  break  bounds 
again."  She  made  a  motion  as  if  to  depart. 

"Don't  go  just  yet,"  he  said  pleadingly; 
"  there  is  now  no  reason  why  you  should  for  a 
while,  is  there?  Let  us  sit  here  in  this  gorgeous 
night  a  little  longer,  and  let  me  smoke  a  cigar." 

At  the  moment  he  was  undergoing  a  revul 
sion  of  feeling.  His  state  of  mind  was  like  that 


DAVID   HARGM.  381 

of  an  improvident  debtor  who,  while  knowing 
that  the  note  must  be  paid  some  time,  does  not 
quite  realize  it  for  a  while  after  an  extension. 
At  last  the  cigar  was  finished.  There  had  been 
but  little  said  between  them. 

"  I  really  must  go,"  she  said,  and  he  walked 
with  her  across  the  hanging  bridge  and  down 
the  deck  to  the  gangway  door. 

"  Where  shall  I  address  you  to  let  you  know 
when  we  shall  be  in  Naples?"  she  asked  as  they 
were  about  to  separate. 

"  Care  of  Cook  and  Son/'  he  said.  "  You 
will  find  the  address  in  Baedeker." 

He  saw  her  the  next  morning  long  enough 
for  a  touch  of  the  hand  and  a  good-bye  before 
the  bobbing,  tubby  little  boat  with  its  Arab  crew 
took  the  Ruggleses  on  board. 


CHAPTER   XLVII. 

How  John  Lenox  tried  to  kill  time  during 
the  following  two  months,  and  how  time  retali 
ated  during  the  process,  it  is  needless  to  set  forth. 
It  may  not,  however,  be  wholly  irrelevant  to  note 
that  his  cough  had  gradually  disappeared,  and 
that  his  appetite  had  become  good  enough  to 
carry  him  through  the  average  table  d'hote  din 
ner.  On  the  morning  after  his  arrival  at  Na 
ples  he  found  a  cable  dispatch  at  the  office  of 
Cook  and  Son,  as  follows :  "  Sixty  cash,  forty 
stock.  Stock  good.  Harum." 

"  God  bless  the  dear  old  boy!"  said  John 
fervently.  The  Pennsylvania  property  was  sold 
at  last;  and  if  "stock  good"  was  true,  the  dis 
patch  informed  him  that  he  was,  if  not  a  rich 
man  for  modern  days,  still,  as  David  would  have 
put  it,  "  wuth  consid'able."  No  man,  I  take  it, 
is  very  likely  to  receive  such  a  piece  of  newrs 
without  satisfaction;  but  if  our  friend's  first  sen 
sation  was  one  of  gratification,  the  thought  which 
followed  had  a  drop  of  bitterness  in  it.  "  If  I 
could  only  have  had  it  before!  "  he  said  to  him 
self;  and  indeed  many  of  the  disappointments  of 
life,  if  not  the  greater  part,  come  because  events 
are  unpunctual.  They  have  a  way  of  arriving 
sometimes  too  early,  or  worse,  too  late. 

Another  circumstance  detracted  from  his  sat- 
382 


DAVID  HARUM.  383 

isfaction:  a  note  he  expected  did  not  appear 
among  the  other  communications  waiting  him  at 
the  bankers,  and  his  mind  was  occupied  for  the 
while  with  various  conjectures  as  to  the  reason, 
none  of  which  was  satisfactory.  Perhaps  she  had 
changed  her  mind.  Perhaps — a  score  of  things! 
.Well,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  be  as  patient 
as  possible  and  await  events.  He  remembered 
that  she  had  said  she  was  to  visit  some  friends 
by  the  name  of  Hartleigh,  and  she  had  told 
him  the  name  of  their  villa,  but  for  the  moment 
he  did  not  remember  it.  In  any  case  he  did  not 
know  the  Hartleighs,  and  if  she  had  changed  her 
mind — as  was  possibly  indicated  by  the  omission 

to  send  him  word — well !     He  shrugged  his 

shoulders,  mechanically  lighted  a  cigarette,  and 
strolled  down  and  out  of  the  Piazza  Martin  and 
across  to  the  Largo  della  Vittoria.  He  had  a  half- 
formed  idea  of  walking  back  through  the  Villa 
Nazionale,  spending  an  hour  at  the  Aquarium, 
and  then  to  his  hotel  for  luncheon.  It  occurred 
to  him  at  the  moment  that  there  was  a  steamer 
from  Genoa  on  the  Monday  following,  that  he 
was  tired  of  wandering  about  aimlessly  and  alone, 
and  that  there  was  really  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  take  the  said  steamer  and  go  home. 
Occupied  with  these  reflections,  he  absently  ob 
served,  just  opposite  to  him  across  the  way,  a 
pair  of  large  bay  horses  in  front  of  a  handsome 
landau.  A  coachman  in  livery  was  on  the  box, 
and  a  small  footman,  very  much  coated  and  silk- 
hatted,  was  standing  about;  and,  as  he  looked, 
two  ladies  came  out  of  the  arched  entrance  to 
the  court  of  the  building  before  which  the  equi 
page  was  halted,  and  the  small  footman  sprang 
to  the  carriage  door, 


DAVID   HARUM. 


One  of  the  ladies  was  a  stranger  to  him,  but 
the  other  was  Mrs.  William  Ruggles;  and  John, 
seeing  that  he  had  been  recognized,  at  once 
crossed  over  to  the  carriage;  and  presently,  hav 
ing  accepted  an  invitation  to  breakfast,  found 
himself  sitting  opposite  them  on  his  way  to  the 
Villa  Violante.  The  conversation  during  the 
drive  up  to  the  Vomero  need  not  be  detailed. 
Mrs.  Hartleigh  arrived  at  the  opinion  that  our 
friend  was  rather  a  dull  person.  Mrs.  Ruggles, 
as  he  had  found  out,  was  usually  rather  taciturn. 
Neither  is  it  necessary  to  say  very  much  of  the 
breakfast,  nor  of  the  people  assembled. 

It  appeared  that  several  guests  had  departed 
the  previous  day,  and  the  people  at  table  con 
sisted  only  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ruggles,  Mary,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hartleigh  and  their  two  daughters,  and 
John,  whose  conversation  was  mostly  with  his 
host,  and  was  rather  desultory.  In  fact,  there  was 
during  the  meal  a  perceptible  air  of  something 
like  disquietude.  Mr.  Ruggles  in  particular  said 
almost  nothing,  and  wore  an  appearance  of  what 
seemed  like  anxiety.  Once  he  turned  to  his  host: 
"  When  ought  I  to  get  an  answer  to  that  cable, 
Hartleigh?  to-day,  do  you  think?" 

"  Yes,  I  should  say  so  without  doubt,"  was 
the  reply,  "  if  it's  answered  promptly,  and  in  fact 
there's  plenty  of  time.  Remember  that  we  are 
about  six  hours  earlier  than  New  York  by  the 
clock,  and  it's  only  about  seven  in  the  morning 
over  there." 

Coffee  was  served  on  the  balustraded  platform 
of  the  flight  of  marble  steps  leading  down  to  the 
grounds  below. 

"  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Hartleigh,  when  cigarettes 


DAVID  HARUM.  385 

had  been  offered,  "  don't  you  want  to  show  Mr. 
Lenox  something  of  La  Violante?" 

"  I  shall  take  you  to  my  favorite  place,"  she 
said,  as  they  descended  the  steps  together. 

The  southern  front  of  the  grounds  of  the  Villa 
Violante  is  bounded  and  upheld  by  a  wall  of  tufa 
fifty  feet  in  height  and  some  four  hundred  feet 
long.  About  midway  of  its  length  a  semicircu 
lar  bench  of  marble,  with  a  rail,  is  built  out  over 
one  of  the  buttresses.  From  this  point  is  visible 
the  whole  bay  and  harbor  of  Naples,  and  about 
one  third  of  the  city  lies  in  sight,  five  hundred 
feet  below.  To  the  left  one  sees  Vesuvius  and 
the  Sant'  Angelo  chain,  which  the  eye  follows  to 
Sorrento.  Straight  out  in  front  stands  Capri,  and 
to  the  right  the  curve  of  the  bay,  ending  at  Po- 
silipo.  The  two,  John  and  his  companion,  halted 
near  the  bench,  and  leaned  upon  the  parapet  of 
the  wall  for  a  while  in  silence.  From  the  streets 
below  rose  no  rumble  of  traffic,  no  sound  of 
hoof  or  wheel;  but  up  through  three  thousand 
feet  of  distance  came  from  here  and  there  the 
voices  of  street-venders,  the  clang  of  a  bell,  and 
ever  and  anon  the  pathetic  supplication  of  a  don 
key.  Absolute  quiet  prevailed  where  they  stood, 
save  for  these  upcoming  sounds.  The  April  sun, 
deliciously  warm,  drew  a  smoky  odor  from  the 
hedge  of  box  with  which  the  parapet  walk  was 
bordered,  in  and  out  of  which  darted  small  green 
lizards  with  the  quickness  of  little  fishes. 

John  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I  don't  believe  there  is  another  such  view  in 
the  world,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not  wonder  that  this 
is  your  favorite  spot." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  should  see  the  grounds 
—the  whole  place  is  superb — but  this  is  the  glory 


386 


DAVID   HARUM. 


of  it  all,  and  I  have  brought  you  straight  here 
because  I  wanted  to  see  it  with  you,  and  this  may 
be  the  only  opportunity." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  apprehen 
sively. 

"  You  heard  Mr.  Ruggles's  question  about 
the  cable  dispatch?"  she  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  our  plans  have  been  very 
much  upset  by  some  things  he  has  heard  from 
home.  We  came  on  from  Algiers  ten  days  ear 
lier  than  we  had  intended,  and  if  the  reply  to  Mr, 
Ruggles's  cable  is  unfavorable,  we  are  likely  to 
depart  for  Genoa  to-morrow  and  take  the  steamer 
for  home  on  Monday.  The  reason  why  I  did  not 
send  a  note  to  your  bankers,"  she  added,  "  was 
that  we  came  on  the  same  boat  that  I  intended 
to  write  by;  and  Mr.  Hartleigh's  man  has  in 
quired  for  you  every  day  at  Cook's  so  that  Mr. 
Hartleigh  might  know  of  your  coming  and  call 
upon  you." 

John  gave  a  little  exclamation  of  dismay. 
Her  face  was  very  still  as  she  gazed  out  over  the 
sea  with  half-closed  eyes.  He  caught  the  scent 
of  the  violets  in  the  bosom  of  her  white  dress. 

"  Let  us  sit  down,"  she  said  at  last.  "  I  have 
something  I  wish  to  say  to  you." 

He  made  no  rejoinder  as  they  seated  them 
selves,  and  during  the  moment  or  two  of  silence 
in  which  she  seemed  to  be  meditating  how  to 
begin,  he  sat  bending  forward,  holding  his  stick 
with  both  hands  between  his  knees,  absently 
prodding  holes  in  the  gravel. 

"  I  think,"  she  began,  "  that  if  I  did  not  be 
lieve  the  chances  were  for  our  going  to-morrow, 
I  would  not  say  it  to-day."  John  bit  his  lip  and 


DAVID  HARUM.  387 

gave  the  gravel  a  more  vigorous  punch.  "  But  I 
have  felt  that  I  must  say  it  to  you  some  time  be 
fore  we  saw  the  last  of  each  other,  whenever  that 
time  should  be." 

"  Is  it  anything  about  what  happened  on 
board  ship?  "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  it  concerns  all  that  took 
place  on  board  ship,  or  nearly  all,  and  I  have  had 
many  misgivings  about  it.  I  am  afraid  that  I 
did  wrong,  and  I  am  afraid,  too,  that  in  your 
secret  heart  you  would  admit  it." 

"  No,  never!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  If  there  was 
any  wrong  done,  it  was  wholly  of  my  own  doing. 
I  was  alone  to  blame.  I  ought  to  have  remem 
bered  that  you  were  married,  and  perhaps — yes, 
I  did  remember  it  in  a  way,  but  I  could  not  re 
alize  it.  I  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  your 
husband,  or  heard  of  your  marriage.  He  was 
a  perfectly  unreal  person  to  me,  and  you — you 
seemed  only  the  Mary  Blake  that  I  had  known, 
and  as  I  had  known  you.  I  said  what  I  did  that 
night  upon  an  impulse  which  was  as  unpre 
meditated  as  it  was  sudden.  I  don't  see  how  you 
were  wrong.  You  couldn't  have  foreseen  what 
took  place — and " 

"  Have  you  not  been  sorry  for  what  took 
place?"  she  asked,  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 
"  Have  you  not  thought  the  less  of  me  since?  " 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  There  was  a 
little  smile  upon  her  lips  and  on  her  downcast 
eyes. 

"  No,  by  Heaven! "  he  exclaimed  desperately, 
"  I  have  not,  and  I  am  not  sorry.  Whether  I 
ought  to  have  said  what  I  did  or  not,  it  was  true, 
and  I  wanted  you  to  know " 

He  broke  off  as  she  turned  to  him  with  a 


388 


DAVID   HARUM. 


smile  and  a  blush.     The  smile  was  almost  a 
laugh. 

"  But,  John,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not  Mrs.  Ed 
ward  Ruggles.  I  am  Mary  Blake." 

The  parapet  was  fifty  feet  above  the  terrace. 
The  hedge  of  box  was  an  impervious  screen. 

Well,  and  then,  after  a  little  of  that  sort  of 
thing,  they  both  began  hurriedly  to  admire  the 
view  again,  for  some  one  was  coming.  But  it 
was  only  one  of  the  gardeners,  who  did  not  un 
derstand  English;  and  confidence  being  once 
more  restored,  they  fell  to  discussing — every 
thing. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  live  in  Homeville, 
dear?  "  asked  John  after  a  while. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to,  shall  I  not?  "  said 
Mary.  "  And  are  you,  too,  really  happy,  John?  " 

John  instantly  proved  to  her  that  he  was. 
"  But  it  almost  makes  me  unhappy,"  he  added, 
"  to  think  how  nearly  we  have  missed  each  other. 
If  I  had  only  known  in  the  beginning  that  you 
were  not  Mrs.  Edward  Ruggles!" 

Mary  laughed  joyously.  The  mistake  which 
a  moment  before  had  seemed  almost  tragic  now 
appeared  delightfully  funny. 

"  The  explanation  is  painfully  simple,"  she 
answered.  "  Mrs.  Edward  Ruggles — the  real 
one — did  expect  to  come  on  the  Vaterland, 
whereas  I  did  not.  But  the  day  before  the 
steamer  sailed  she  was  summoned  to  Andover 
by  the  serious  illness  of  her  only  son,  who  is  at 
school  there.  I  took  her  ticket,  got  ready  over 
night — I  like  to  start  on  these  unpremeditated 
journeys — and  here  I  am."  John  put  his  arm 


DAVID  HARUM.  389 

about  her  to  make  sure  of  this,  and  kept  it  there 
— lest  he  should  forget.  "  When  we  met  on  the 
steamer  and  I  saw  the  error  you  had  made  I  was 
tempted — and  yielded — to  let  you  go  on  uncor- 
rected.  But,"  she  added,  looking  lovingly  up 
into  John's  eyes,  "  I'm  glad  you  found  out  your 
mistake  at  last." 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Mr.  Harum  sat  at  his  desk 
in  the  office  of  Harum  &  Co.  There  were  a 
number  of  letters  for  him,  but  the  one  he  opened 
first  bore  a  foreign  stamp,  and  was  postmarked 
"  Napoli."  That  he  was  deeply  interested  in  the 
contents  of  this  epistle  was  manifest  from  the  be 
ginning,  not  only  from  the  expression  of  his  face, 
but  from  the  frequent  "  wa'al,  wa'als  "  which  were 
elicited  as  he  went  on;  but  interest  grew  into 
excitement  as  he  neared  the  close,  and  culmi 
nated  as  he  read  the  last  few  lines. 

"Scat  my  CATS!"  he  cried, and, grabbing  his 
hat  and  the  letter,  he  bolted  out  of  the  back  door 
in  the  direction  of  the  house,  leaving  the  rest  of 
his  correspondence  to  be  digested — any  time. 
390 


EPILOGUE. 

I  MIGHT,  in  conclusion,  tell  how  John's  fur 
ther  life  in  Homeville  was  of  comparatively  short 
duration;  how  David  died  of  injuries  received  in 
a  runaway  accident;  how  John  found  himself  the 
sole  executor  of  his  late  partner's  estate,  and,  save 
for  a  life  provision  for  Mrs.  Bixbee,  the  only 
legatee,  and  rich  enough  (if  indeed  with  his  own 
and  his  wife's  money  he  had  not  been  so  before) 
to  live  wherever  he  pleased.  But  as  heretofore 
I  have  confined  myself  strictly  to  facts,  I  am,  to 
be  consistent,  constrained  to  abide  by  them  now. 
Indeed,  I  am  too  conscientious  to  do  otherwise, 
notwithstanding  the  temptation  to  make  what 
might  be  a  more  artistic  ending  to  my  story. 
David  is  not  only  living,  but  appears  almost  no 
older  than  when  we  first  knew  him,  and  is  still 
just  as  likely  to  "  git  goin'  "  on  occasion.  Even 
"  old  Jinny "  is  still  with  us,  though  her  mas 
ter  does  most  of  his  "  joggin'"  'round  "  behind 
a  younger  horse.  Whatever  Mr.  Harum's  tes 
tamentary  intentions  may  be,  or  even  whether 
he  has  made  a  will  or  not,  nobody  knows  but 
himself  and  his  attorney.  Aunt  Polly — well, 
there  is  a  little  more  of  her  than  when  we  first 
made  her  acquaintance,  say  twenty  pounds. 

John  and  his  wife  live  in  a  house  which  they 
built  on  the  shore  of  the  lake.  It  is  a  settled 

391 


392 


DAVID   HARUM. 


thing  that  David  and  his  sister  dine  with  them 
every  Sunday.  Mrs.  Bixbee  at  first  looked  a  lit 
tle  askance  at  the  wine  on  the  table,  but  she  does 
not  object  to  it  now.  Being  a  "  son  o'  temp'- 
rence,"  she  has  never  been  induced  to  taste  any 
champagne,  but  on  one  occasion  she  was  per 
suaded  to  take  the  smallest  sip  of  claret. 
"  Wa'al,"  she  remarked  with  a  wry  face,  "  I  guess 
the'  can't  be  much  sin  or  danger  'n  drinkin'  any- 
thin'  't  tastes  the  way  that  does." 

She  and  Mrs.  Lenox  took  to  each  other  from 
the  first,  and  the  latter  has  quite  supplanted  (and 
more)  Miss  Claricy  (Mrs.  Elton)  with  David.  In 
fact,  he  said  to  our  friend  one  day  during  the 
first  year  of  the  marriage,  "  Say,  John,  I  ain't 
sure  but  what  we'll  have  to  hitch  that  wife  o' 
your'n  on  the  off  side." 

I  had  nearly  forgotten  one  person  whose  con 
versation  has  yet  to  be  recorded  in  print,  but 
which  is  considered  very  interesting  by  at  least 
four  people.  His  name  is  David  Lenox. 

I  think  that's  all. 


(6) 


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